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Blind Eye

The heart sees only what it wishes to see.

Like the stunning red petals of a thorn filled rose, or the beautiful basket that carries a handful of rotten fruits.
It sees only goodness in a convicted man’s being, and finds vindication in lieu of a beloved’s lie.
It takes notice of that single right in a deluge of wrongs, and esteems that single smile amidst a rainstorm of sorrows.
It looks at what it receives rather than at what it has given, in a context of misgivings and unjust returns.

Yet the heart knows what it refuses to see.

Like the sadness behind those façade of smiles or the coldness unconcealed by those humdrum, empty words.
It feels the pricking pain as the thorns of the rose it adores rip open the surfaces of its fragile skin, or the gushing of blood for every word not said and deed not done.
It sees a flame blazing, yet feels deep within the extinguished spark that loses its luster day by day.

But despite what it knows, the heart believes what it chooses to believe.

It is soldered into its unyielding pretence that ‘Everything’s fine’, the make-believe that someday everything will fall back together again.
It builds a wall so sturdy to protect it from the truth behind those lies, and to never stain nor destroy its ideals of love.

But a heart that sees within limits can only love within boundaries.

For the fear of what lies outside the walls of comfort cripples its capacity to love without bounds.
And that kind of love, no matter how pure, would never be ENOUGH.

P.S. Perhaps that other person loves you so much, to be in such denial despite knowing the truth.


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