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 unto 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 thrusted upon him by the decisions he's made in the past.
In the delicate fabric of dealing with choices:
Do you succumb to the easier route or take 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 lead to this path, was still a mystery to him.
To the broken-hearted person who made him choose, which is which and what is what; it was a matter of decency over self-profligacy. For he'd wasted all he'd had on his decisions.
The choices that were critical to the brokenhearted person, who only said 'Go', despite the perturbations of the brokenhearted's consternations for him to either stay or to leave, didn't beckon him to choose to un-break the heart he broke that day.
It was because he felt he didn't have any other choice, but to choose his pride of 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 to one single direction that made him choose the single minded path of recklessness?
And that was the flaw in his conscience. His conscience that only spoke of 'I' instead of 'We' or 'Us'.
Selfishness doesn't get bearing if one doesn't capitalise on its function. For the function of selfishness only acts upon one's self-preservation.
And preserving himself was his only choice he'd always chosen 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.
But he refused to see whatever errors were there in the making. A spade is a spade, as he always said. But behind a spade was a king of hearts in 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 to the brokenhearted person.
He never assumed they would last this long, but he did, for the sake of communal bliss he thought he'd be pressured to partake in. His family, his friends, and his colleagues were all too sure to give their inputs on his life, especially to the effect 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 gave the effect a husband whom he can 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 commitments in the comity of faith.
In the enslavement of priorities, he was shackled to his own commiserations to the yoke of his discontent.
In the enslavement of priorities, he sought comfort on his adulteries—to bathe in the solace he knew would be shared to other intimates of his yearnings.
And the brokenhearted person was an intimate he fondly treasured; another life bouldered by the indefiniteness to 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 was the direct result of an action. And an action he thought was too costly to amend.
So he languished 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 to knights. Even a pawn can rise to be a king, especially when a king absconded his throne at exactly 5:30 PM whenever the king returned to his eloquent kingdom.
To the brokenhearted person...I say, be free.
To him, I say, be free.
To the effect, I say, be free.
For the ripples of freedom would soon connect their choices.
However, he never did free himself. And the effect chose to be an effect. Because for them, misery and discontent had been a staple to their lifelong reveries. A ritual they shared with others whose lives were privy to their commiserations. A cycle notably famous to those who sought perfection in the imperfect world of dissatisfaction—to those men who sought in reaching 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 stretch far across all nations.
Be wary my friends, for a tale is not a tale without its application in this ground we tread upon.
Alas, I'm no longer brokenhearted.
I am, but free.