Short Histoires - 1. The Brokenhearted's Tale

It was clear that day when he took it upon himself to close the door and never return. It wasn't the isolation that left his breathing staggered with all the burdens he'd chosen to carry onto his shoulders; but he'd never thought that life would strike him in the severest manner of his own discontent—to this life he'd lead that was thrust upon him by the decisions he'd made in the past.

In the delicate fabric of dealing with choices:

Do you succumb to the easier route or take on the arduous task of self-fulfilment?

He chose the former; hence, this was his punishment. The heart he'd broken that day was not his. But his feebleness in acknowledging how it had led to this path was still a mystery to him.

To the broken-hearted person who made him choose between which is which and what is what, it was a matter of decency over self-profligacy. He'd wasted all he had on his decisions.

The choices that were critical to the brokenhearted person, who only said 'Go', despite the perturbations of the brokenhearted's consternation for him to either stay or to leave, didn't beckon him to choose to unbreak the heart he broke that day.

It was because he felt he didn't have any other choice but to choose his pride over the only option he thought he was given, which was to go.

But was it really the only option? Was it cruel for him to narrow it in one direction, which made him choose the single-minded path of recklessness?

And that was a flaw in his conscience. His conscience only spoke of 'I' instead of 'We' or 'Us'.

Selfishness doesn't have any bearing if one doesn't capitalise on its function. The function of selfishness only acts upon one's self-preservation.

And preserving himself was his only choice; he'd always chosen it in the past, the present, or probably in the future. To the brokenhearted person, it was not preserving the 'Us' or the 'We' in this debacle. It was the self-admission that mistakes had been made and the error needed to be corrected.

He refused to see whatever errors were in the making. A spade is a spade, as he always said. But behind the spade was a king of hearts on a full deck.

Promises are meant to be broken, he thought. And a promise he made twelve years ago was nothing compared to the unhappiness that he'd caused the brokenhearted person.

He never assumed they would last this long, but they did. For the sake of communal bliss, he thought he'd be pressured to partake in it. His family, friends, and colleagues were all too sure to give their input on his life, especially to the effect that he'd marry on that joyous afternoon at St. Paul's Cathedral.

In the enslavement of priorities, he chose to be a father. He gave the effect the chance to be a familial unit.

In the enslavement of priorities, he chose to be a husband. He had the effect of having a husband whom he could honestly say was a good provider.

In the enslavement of priorities, he beseeched his yearnings to thwart all longings for a different life, for he thought it was evil and cruel.

In the enslavement of priorities, he was a slave to his commitment to the comity of faith.

In the enslavement of priorities, he was shackled to his own commiserations in the yoke of his discontent.

In the enslavement of priorities, he sought comfort in his adulteries—to bathe in the solace he knew would be shared with other intimates of his yearnings.

The brokenhearted person was an intimate person he fondly treasured—another life bouldered by the indefiniteness of how he'd enslaved himself to his priorities.

The effect never knew that she'd be a consequence. But the effect was determined to keep herself in the affectations of communal bliss, patriarchal oligarchy, strategical devises of a suburban life; for an effect, it is a direct result of action. And an action he thought was too costly to amend.

So he lamented to himself that the brokenhearted person was to be locked in the fortress—only to be seen when he rolled the banner and heeded the call.

But not all pawns are pawns, and rooks are knights. Even a pawn can rise to be a king, especially when a king absconded from his throne at exactly 5:30 p.m. whenever the king returned to his eloquent kingdom.

To the brokenhearted person...I say, be free.

To him, I say, be free.

To that effect, I say, be free.

The ripples of freedom would soon connect their choices.

However, he never freed himself. And the effect was an effect. Because, for them, misery and discontent had been a staple of their lifelong reveries. A ritual they shared with others whose lives were privy to their commiserations. A cycle notably famous for those who sought perfection in the imperfect world of dissatisfaction—to those men who sought to reach the heights of the gods, only to fall miserably to the ground like the fabled Icarus.

And to the brokenhearted person: He writes this fable to warn those who are kept in fortresses by misers, gregarious enchanters, and kings whose kingdom stretches far across all nations.

Be wary, my friends, for a tale is not a tale without its application on this ground we tread upon.

Alas, I'm no longer brokenhearted.

I am, but free.