Broken Hearts in Metaphor.

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Broken hearts are infinitely valuable. Those people who rend us save us. In a broken heart we lose ourselves, but by the damage done we are educated in art of seeing in the darkness. We learn to find the fertile soil of a new beginning with blind and groping fingers. We learn to reach out again. And that is growth.

And darkness passes. Light comes, and we sprout again. Or maybe it’s less vibrant, and we’re just picking up the pieces. Maybe a few are even sharp and add to our scars.

But that’s alright. It is beautiful. Bones make more blood, and our skin is there to house and feed our nerves so we may feel the outside world and know our place in it. Scars don’t hamper that. Much.

Scars give us maps so that we may find our way, and they let those who have loved deeply find each other in the darkness. Roughened hands are more sure than smooth ones. They remind us of the purpose of our lives, and of the resilience found in the very stuff we’re made of. They remind us to begin again.

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