My heart is heavy by the weight of its tears

We give to unclutter, we give to better ourselves. We give because it is in the giving that we grow, we learn, we triumph and we love.

But in so giving, we are subject still, to the close of every chapter, the arriving again at another juncture. And as much for the reward I feel for giving, I feel as much also the pain. The reflection, in hindsight, the knowledge of just how much we have given so that we might make room for more... There is, deep inside, the hurt that I breathe, from the unearthing and the releasing of all those little particles that make the sum of my parts, given, away, to someone or something or some cause else, which I can never retrieve again to call my own.

It isn't the giving with which I cannot live, but the letting go that something other than my thinking, analysing, practical faculties which struggles to be at peace. The weight of this at any present moment is thrown to the wind with caution, hunting and haunting you only with the bow of time and its arrow of lost.

For those crossroads we must continually come upon and choose from, it is the course of natural life with which we have no control.

And everytime, a part of me dies. And everytime, I search and yearn and long for a peace that must only exist in the imaginations of men, desperate for a cloak of comfort to come to terms with this life.

I give because I want to give. I give because I cannot help but give. From where, for once, tell me how it gets any easier. Or, at least, how to be fulfilled with the concept that in giving, I have also gotten. For once, tell me, how I should live with myself, at peace. Satisfied. Because I still would not have changed a thing. I know, in the end, I will always give.

Maybe, afterwards, I can pick on my wounds chewing on the reality that is Choice. And all the inexplicables that come with it.