There are branches to this, limbs which stretch in varying directions of meaning.
I’ve not decided which one suits the prompt best.

Is there a flavour of cynicism to accompany a hardened heart?
Have there been lessons which stripped away naivete and left something calcified and jaded in its wake?

Is it stemming from the need to be inured against the aforementioned cynicism?
The erecting of boundaries to keep safe this tender organ which sings of love unrepentant even in the face of sophistry galore?

Or perhaps it’s the notion of an uncarved block.
Of a journey toward an emotional depth previously unknown, of skill or art which bides its time and waits to be uncloaked, for the sculptor to chip away at the parts which hide the jewel at the center. Leaving behind the aspects of character or attachments which serve no purpose other than to strengthen one’s conviction that the only thing truly knowable is contained within the self.


Or maybe it’s just an attempt on my part to engage with that part of myself I forget to exercise on a regular basis, regardless of how scary it might seem, or how much it might hurt.

What’s the point of having a heart if you don’t open it wide enough to break once in a while?