Haine Rae

Stories of different worlds told through the hands of Haine.

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Heart Strings

How shall I explain heart strings? Is there a way to do this without having a manic ramble? Cherished one I do desire to explain this to you. Have you understand what it feels like to have these strings abused—abused for so long. The best way to describe something is from the beginning. Yes? That is where I shall start; with the first sensation.

This noise is unbearable. Rolling through my mind as great masses of thunder. Bringing along an uncontrollable amount of thoughts that jump from one spot to another which gathering together around large pots of negative emotions and memories to strike down at the core of my being. All of these become strings of poisonous thoughts and feelings that feed off of one another—played together as some kind of string instrument that is connected to my heart. My heart strings. Some unholy hand comes to pluck and pull at the strings creating more of this sound. More of this poison. As the thoughts multiply and become their own strings so do more hands grow. Playing this noise louder and louder until it rings through my ears. I cannot hear anything else but this noise. The whispers from each individual string and cluster/chain of thoughts used to make each string. Each ramble of emotion that comes from some negative pot of energy which is then used to create more strings. It continues this run-on run-down cycle. Dearest one you too are a part of this. Unknowingly holding a bow that plays more than one string. Grouping several related strings and playing their common melody. Pushing against the strings that hold the chaos of my mind and my heart together—separating my mind from my core. Adding stress to my body (that is ever so visible). I do not blame you for this my dearest. How could I? How could you possibly know that this would happen let alone prevent it? This situation, chest pains, is caused by my own heart. My own heart. In general my own being. These heart strings could in fact play a lovely melody by your hand. Even though my instrument is born out of the abyss, pits of misery, that does not mean it is destined for such. Misery is best with company—what company that is does not matter. It could very well be abusive company, often it is. But dearest it could be something else! Yes! Your own hands could be the ones of comfort and compassion. Gently playing my strings with a bow that eases the pain. Allows the thoughts to flow out in an ordered manner in which it could be understood. Not a manic ramble but a well structured story. One that could involve all of the strings. Every thought, every memory. My dearest your hands could set free my mind. Get rid of the unbearable noise. Change it to a wonderful song. Or, for once, there could be silence. Just the comfort of your essence understanding my own. This is what the heart strings can do. 


Believe me, please, my dear when I say this. Dearest. Understand that my situation is not about you, nor anyone else in this world—any plane of existence. What drives my mind into the abyss is myself. No amount of luxury or poverty will alter the course. In the end there shall be nothing. A void—I will die. Until that point comes I shall swim against the currents of the black sea. Fight for every piece of land that floats by. Scavenge off of every bone given, earned. Until nothing is left but ash and carried to shore by the wind. It will not be an easy journey (it will most likely be very painful) but I will see it to the end! I shall record it—to you, my cherished, who reads these words. This is the diary of. ..