Story of the heart

Today I will write a story that is perhaps not just a story, but the pain of those fragments living inside my heart that today are no longer just pain, but have become an entire ocean of pain. In my own story, I am a puppet. I was brought here as a doll, made to be played with, made to be the path to happiness. But the difference was this: They kept me like a doll, and when it was time for _their_ emotions, they turned me into a puppet. There, everyone burned me with the fire of their feelings, and then from the leftover smoke, they made that burnt puppet into a puppet again. They stabbed it with a dagger, then stitched it up with a needle, and then stabbed it again. And this cycle just kept going. Maybe when you hear the story of my heart, it will just seem like a useless tale to you, or a lifeless topic. But today I have not come to make humans listen to my voice, I have come to speak to those lifeless pieces of paper that somehow, like a microorganism, hear my story and reach all the way to my heart. With their tiny hands they hold together the fragments of my heart, and sit there with me for a few moments. They fill the tears falling from my heart with a light that shines out with a spark, maybe it is the light of hope. You cannot see them, but they go into my heart and do what humans could not do, even if they wanted to. I have no hope left from people, nor do I have hope for any light. Today I write only by making these lifeless pieces of paper my companions, who, though lifeless, put life back into this broken heart of mine. Today I chose this topic because as long as humans cannot ask for justice for the story of their own soul, for the war inside it, and for the pains living in their heart, as long as they cannot hear their own stories and their own sorrows, then what is the point of talking about such humanity, or about such corrupt people, who might be a very important topic? I have one question: Are not each and every cell in my heart, with oxygen and living cells inside them, a life that we are aware of? We talk about the cruelty done to innocent children, but sadly, we don’t even like to talk about or listen to this little living thing inside our own tiny heart, on which, every single day, someone comes and dumps the burden of their anger and emotions. Today I will talk about the moments of my life that I lived through. *The first moment of my life* When I was considered a flower. And until that flower bloomed, every person would come into my heart and spark a dream, give my heart hope, as if this spring had been decorated only for me. Then I was made to sit on a flower in that spring. *The second moment of my life* When I forgot that along with the flower in this spring, there is also a thorn that is part of this spring, and one day it will make its home inside your heart. The same hands that made me sit on the flower in that spring, are the same hands that dragged me through the thorns, that went straight into my heart and never came back. *The third moment of my life* Just like before a heavy rain, thunder roars, and before that roaring lightning, a sound comes, and then that lightning strikes someone and burns them. The same thing happened with me. First came a sound. At that time the lightning had not struck me, but I had already seen it. But that sound ate me from the inside. Crazy me, I forgot that this was only the sound. That heavy rain soaked me so much, so much that with that rain, the very soul I used to breathe with left. The breaths I used to count until we fell asleep. That rain left me. Seventeen years of life, God knows how many seventeen thousand breaths I had counted. That rain soaked me so much that the water of that rain became an ocean in my heart. When that ocean was fully formed, a river was born there. Then the rain stopped, but whenever that lock would open, my heart would turn to water and start drowning. And when it drowned, God knows where my heart would go, wandering, like a hidden thorn causing pain. Then the lock would close again, the pain would stop, and this cycle kept going. And now came the time when it wasn’t just the sound, but that lightning also struck, the kind of lightning that often burns people. But look at the fate of this heart of mine, it had become so much like stone for that lightning that it struck, and only struck the heart. That lightning fell inside that heart and stayed there. Sometimes it would sleep, sometimes it would wake. And this cycle kept going. In the beginning it hurt a lot, when people thought of me as a puppet made by their hands. The same way I was once brought as a doll, but the difference was: back then we were their game of happiness, and now we were the game of their emotions. We became puppets, and kept burning in the fire of their emotions, and then from that smoke we were made into puppets again. Sometimes a dagger would be stabbed, to extinguish the fire in their heart, then they would stitch it with a needle and show fake love, then stitch it again and stab the dagger once more. And look at fate, when the whole world saw us as a broken puppet, from far away they would feel sorry, come close and show sympathy, then take that wounded puppet in their hands. And instead of a dagger, they would wound me with a tool that had a flower on one tip and poison on the other, poison that doesn’t hurt on the body, but when it reaches the heart, it creates such turmoil, as if the heart locked by a dagger was now locked with poison too. And with it, the wave of blood in my heart would touch it, and with the flower on the other tip, it would clean that blood, and this cycle would keep going. Everyone made me a puppet with the fire in their heart. The heart symbol on this story that came out of my heart has now turned into a white sheet of paper sitting still. *The moment in my life when I found myself* That white paper now writes its own story and becomes the medicine for its own pain. The wounds on my heart found a destination. When I was made a puppet, when my heart was imprisoned in these chains, when the thorn on that flower made a home in my heart, the blood flowing from that heart took me to a white paper where I could fill in every color. This was that white paper that only I could see. The blood flowing out between daggers, thorns and wounds, the thorns showed me a destination that maybe that flower could never have shown. Maybe this is a world created by my own imagination, but I can say with certainty that it is much better than the world where I could not find myself. In this world, I found myself. It is not that today my heart has become free from thorns; this heart is still imprisoned. Often, even the lock placed on a prison leaves behind rust, and that same rust changes the color of that lock. My condition is also something like this. Even if that lock is opened today, the blood that came out of those wounds will never be able to join those wounds again. But that world is like the rust on that lock. The color of that rust is very special to me because it saw a new world. For people, it is only the rust on that lock, which has changed its color. But for me, it is a world that is very beautiful, a world where I found myself. And this is my painful, sorrowful *Story of the Heart*...