The heart is a soft organ. Not in literal texture but in general makeup. Sometimes when I talk to the right person I can feel the soft spots flexing under the weight of my emotion. Everyone I’ve ever loved has flexed my heart. Pushed and pressed on the muscle in one way or another.
In most cultures, softness is a negative trait. Softness can be filed under Weakness, Pity, Easy Prey. I’m not so easily convinced of these connotations. When I think about the parts of me that can be considered “soft” I think of my tears spilling onto my cheeks. My voice wobbling. A stone at the base of my stomach. My limbs shaking. A hurricane of my entire body. My soul bending and stretching in a moment. These soft pieces have never felt particularly soft. They feel jagged and pointed. Sharp and rusty. My soft pieces are violent.
I believe that I’m a soft person. This isn’t to say that I’m not tough or brave, but that is to say that I am human. I’m made of flesh and fear. My body quakes under my own feelings.
At times the human condition seems unbearable. This softness that we inherit from birth can be immobilizing. In our softest moments, we find ourselves wishing we could be harder. That strength was something separate from softness and that we could wield it like a weapon to scare off our ugliest feelings, but we can’t. Strength and softness are the same thing. Our tears build up our resilience. That stone in our bellies hardens our core.
When I feel that warmth creeping up my spine, the break in my chest right before I cry, I take a fraction of a moment to appreciate it. The fact that I can come apart just as simply as I can come together. There is beauty in softness. Beauty in coming apart.
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The Phenomenon of Softness
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Might
I mourn
Not the life we had together
But the one we could have had.
The one we saw in between coffee at the breakfast table and the museum trip we took once.
That life that was glimmering and shiny and seemed too perfect to be true.
The life that you and I both wanted so desperately.
The life we deserved.
The life that maybe if we had reached out a little further
Pressed the tips of our fingers into that shining, shimmering, fantastic light,
Maybe we could have grabbed it.
Maybe there’s still time
Maybe there’s not.
I mourn the life that I wanted with you.
I mourn the person that I could have been and the person that you could have been.
God,you could have been great.
I think that if I were to blow this candle out now, the last thing that you laid your hands on in this place,
That I would extinguish the both of us.
But I must put out the flame.
Or it could burn this house down. -
A Wonderful Writer
Writers are specially made individuals. There are writers who feel the need to tell the story of a young boy gaining a magical gift and fighting dragons and writers who tell the story of an old woman who has lost her husband and is trying not to lose herself. There are so many books on this planet and poems and rhymes and short stories about the human experience as writers have compiled it into words.
We’re different from movie directors who tell stories through the power of a visual, and we’re close to, but not quite musicians who tell a story through a beat. As a story lover, I believe all forms of storytelling are fantastic, but of course, as a writer specifically, I find that there’s something particularly special in writing words that touch the soul. When I’m in a moment of great emotion, words usually escape me. There are only feelings swirling and bouncing up against my brain. But later on when I can begin to clearly understand those feelings and I find the words to describe it, I feel fulfilled. Like I’m validating that emotion to the highest degree. I’m allowing myself to exist in the reality of language.
In my experience, writers are very emo! It seems like we all have this center of gravity rooted in our heartspace. We are tapped into feeling everything as we are constantly seeking words for our floating thoughts, and because of that, we can be dramatic.
I think that being emotional is good. Feeling everything is good. Writers exist in a space that is half earth and half dream. We are here, but more importantly, we are not. We are also inside of ourselves. We are always making up inside of ourselves, for the outside pieces that lack. We are always “trying to make sense”. But it’s hard to make a lot of sense when feelings often seem senseless.
And when we write all of these things and publish them we just want someone out there to read it and think “Yes! I get it!” We want to know that you can see us. Our half life between Earth and dream state. You can see us here.
In other words, writers work hard, so readers don’t have to.
Chena Is Home 