Dust

What happens when a heart is broken, not by a shattering blow, but by neglect, the dust collecting atop it until the mass of each insignificant dust mote joins with that of every other one, and the collective weight of the dust is simply too much to bear?

Perhaps the fierce strike is better, more merciful. The pain is far sharper, more acute, more concentrated in a single moment when a word, a phrase, an action cuts to the quick. The blow not only causes a break, but also stuns the recipient. Sometimes it is more the shock of the blow than the actual damage caused that is the deciding factor. It is common knowledge in boxing that a knockout punch is most often caused by the surprise of receiving an unseen punch to the head. The jab may not have crushed a grapefruit, but the jaw was not set as hard as a grapefruit, so it swings loose, the brains are rattled without warning, and the wiring is momentarily short-circuited. You search for reasons, for logic and understanding, but in that instant, nothing makes sense, for without warning, there is insufficient information to understand what is going on. And the feeble powers of the human mind cannot function without the proper preparation. A sharp strike, and everything falls apart, without any defence. For it is only by letting another into your guard that you may hope to prevail. Unless, of course, your reach really is that superior. Fortunately for most of us, few indeed possess such long arms.

But a quick knockout punch usually has little damage. Imagine a blow across the back of the head, hard enough to cause one to lose consciousness. Contrast that with gently beating a person about the head with a telephone book, say, for several hours. In the former case, a concussion may occur, but the force necessary to cause a loss of consciousness is not enough to cause serious damage. In the latter, the brains are bounced around for hours on end, and they become so scrambled that nothing works anymore. By the time the recipient loses consciousness, the pain and confusion will have reached levels beyond the comprehension of any person who will live after that.

The above example was taken from a novel, by the way. Post Mortem. Decent enough piece of crime fiction.

Anyway, the point is that a slow breaking of a heart is far more cruel. The recipient can see the heart slowly coming apart, and there is nothing to be done about it. You may try, but the dust collects and collects, and no amount of huffing will stop the inevitable. The dust may be sent flying by your breaths, but it will settle again. And in the end, the weight will be too much. The sluggishness of the process hurts most of all, for the damage is clear and unavoidable. It is felt, every moment of the process, and each individual mote of dust that settles atop the others is experienced and known. All the pain and damage is experienced. No shock occurs, for one knows all that happens as it happens. It is precisely because the increments are so small and seemingly insignificant that they are all too significant. There is time to contemplate one's downfall, to mull over what might have been, what alternatives might have been possible. The bearer of the weight of the killing dust will always think that there would have been a different outcome if only another course of action had been taken, or that there is still some hope of redeeming the situation. It is that hope and that regret that makes the slow breaking so much more painful than a quick, sharp blow. There was an alternative, but it was not taken. There is another way, but it cannot be fathomed. What crueler punishment is there than to know that hope exists, just beyond reach?

Ok, just so it's clear, this was not inspired by a personal experience, but from a series of conversations I have had with a few people recently. Reflections on other people, not on me, so do not message me and ask what's wrong. I'm just peachy, thank you. Don't reach, don't hope, don't suffer.