To cage one's own heart willingly...

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I hear a kind of sorrow in that idea, someone so attuned to others that they disappear from their own care. Here’s a poem around that feeling: There lives a soul who reads the ache In trembling smiles that others fake, Who hears the grief in laughter’s sound, And kneels where silent wounds are found. A keeper of unspoken fears, A witness soft to hidden tears, They gather storms from weary skies And hold them gently, asking, “Why?” How strange, how pitiful the art, To know each fracture of a heart, Yet turn no lantern to one’s own, And make of sorrow flesh and bone. For they will calm another’s sea, Whilst drowning where none care to see; Will stitch the wounds on stranger’s skin, Yet leave their own to ache within. They understand too much, perhaps, The grief between affection’s gaps, The trembling guilt, the sharpened shame, The quiet hurt with no true name. And so they bend, and so they stay, To light the dark in others’ way; Till kindness, noble though it seems, Consumes the keeper ...
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You know, everytime people say that I have changed. It takes me back to...

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You know, everytime people say that I have changed, it takes me back to my younger self, the one who was afraid of change, the one who was deeply involved in attachments and the one who used to be overly invested in emotions. Yes, I surely have changed. And I'm glad that I did. But if you ask me, I couldn't have asked for anything better, but that exact silly child, who went through things alone and learnt to grow on it's own.
~Smaraki Sarangi

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