It is hardly ever the heart that breaks. It is reality that falls like a raindrop on a hard black rock and scatters, silently, in all directions. I have cupped a tear in the palm of my hands in an attempt to capture and to break the fall of such a reality predestined to doom.
When love exited, life crashed and splashed like the water balloons I used to drop as a child from terrace tops. In the freefall of love there are no cushions, no pillows. Only the sound of the rapid impetuous wind under your ears and the sight of the blue sky growing farther and farther as you plunge into your peace. The first touch of the ground devoid of sound and then, the impact and then the slow surge of pain that consumes every inch of your flesh. The metallic taste in your mouth that comes with the colour of love. Then the vision blurs. The blue sky fades out. And temporarily you escape from the cuffs of an inescapable reality.
Love is freefalling. A leap of faith. A back dive where you keep your eyes not on the inevitable ground but on the wishful blue canvas and the white clouds that appear so harmless. On this screen you project your aspirations that find their roots in an incorrigible faith that you shall not hit the ground, that the rush of blood, the thrill of falling won't spill out of your guts when you lie sprawling, broken and mangled on the rocks of life. One fine day the white clouds that looked like peaceful idyllic sheep, will grow fangs, pounce on you and make you jump out of your skin. Love is freefalling. And you, an angel kicked out of paradise, unaware of its reality, enjoying the fall momentarily.