One night it was, while he was asleep, an old woman as dirty as all the water and even poorer than the old man himself came in under the bridge to be out of the rain. And when the old man woke up in the morning she was still there. And right from then, the old man only wanted to be there under the bridge. The dirty water and the muddy bank became to be more beautiful for him than even a cathedral or a crown that a king would wear. Or an ocean or a garden. And he asked the old woman to stay. And that was all.
Always I would ask Nalda about how come he didn’t want to see oceans or cathedrals anymore, and I didn’t like the story at all. I never did ask for it but sometimes she just used to tell it anyway. ‘A moment will come when you’ll understand it,’ she said, ‘and that will mean you’ve fallen in love, with your high heart. Many times you’ll fall in love - but mostly with your low heart and that can only ever be a destructive and harmful thing. Your high heart will only fall in love once and when it does you’ll know why the oceans and cathedrals didn’t matter.’
it’s been such a hard season and the bridges we burned might be all we had to keep us from drowning. but at least we had this time; and i’d like to think we’re better off for it. i’ll remember this. sometimes broken things make the best building supplies. and we’ll keep on building. hearts aren’t made of glass, they’re made of muscle and blood and something else. and they don’t so much as break as bend and tear. we have what it takes to keep it together; and move on.
any relationship that matters - a friendship, a family, a romance, a band - anything - is a perilous and fragile thing because along with all the amazing experiences and creations that can come from something so intimate and exhausting comes the possibility for things to crumble and shatter or whither and die. when that happens, it’s easy to forget what was precious amidst all the disaster. we should always carry our history with us but never let it bury us.