I was broken.
My heart was broken in pieces, so long ago that I couldn't even remember when it broke.
It wasn't like having a broken heart from love sickness, when your heart shatters all at once.
No, mine just gradually eroded and crumbled down over the years.
Sure, I tried fixing it. One little piece at the time. But every time I managed to fix a part, it just got broken down again.
And eventually I stopped trying to fix it. It felt like a waste of time anyway.
I carried the broken pieces of heart with me. Sealed in a box, deep inside my inner core.
The box was packed packed well.
And I made sure to not shake it too hard, because otherwise the splinters would hit me and it would hurt.
The pieces were only there only to serve one purpose; to fuel my inspiration for art.
It was the one thing that I did enjoy doing.
By the time I was 18 years old, I'd already seen so much in life, that I became numb to it.
And I was convinced that I would end up either