Every broken heart carries a secret. A whisper of what might have been, a phantom touch of a love now gone. Within this anthology, peer into the shadows of grief, where ‘Tragic Hearts’ bleed their untold tales, where love’s loss echoes in the depths of despair. Tears stain the parchment, etching stories of dreams shattered. Prepare to journey through the desolate landscapes of the soul.
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2023 has been a whirlwind, a year sculpted by its own hand, a year written in ink, blood, dust, and sweat. It has been a roller-coaster year for all and sundry, sometimes with showers of blessings that painted smiles on some faces and at times with springs of pain that left tears in the wake of others.
For some, it was the best year yet, a time of remarkable achievements and milestones, a testament to being God’s favourite. Their stories are jotted in bold, vibrant ink in their celebration of flourishing days under the sun.
However, for others, 23 has been a year tailored in blood, a testament to the battles fought and survived. These are the stories of valiant soldiers, of resilience in the face of unimaginable adversity. Their tales, though painful, are a beacon of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always the prospect of dawn.
And then there are the stories written in dust and sweat, the chronicles of everyday struggles. These are the tales of those who toiled on the streets to make ends meet for their families to break bread and butter. Sometimes, only a smile would do when water was all they had.
’23 has been a paradoxical year, a tapestry woven with threads of joy and sorrow, triumph and defeat. It has been a year where some cried themselves to sleep while others slept with smiles on their faces. Frankly, it has been a year that has tested us, broken us, and ultimately, made us stronger.
As we stand at the precipice of 2024, the scars of ’23 decorating our skin like shining armour, we carry with us the lessons learned as we hope for a better tomorrow. We move forward, heads held high, eyes fixed on the horizon, knowing that the best is yet to come.
In the dead of the night, I am asleep yet lost in thoughts, My mind is like an active volcano, A battlefield with a sea of questions.
Is beauty not meant to hurt? It’s not a weapon, is it? Then why does it wound this much? Why?
I am forced to hypothesize That somehow beauty detests me with passion, The same passion that churns my insides with devotion.
Every time I try to get even a bit close to it, It ends up rupturing me to the point of no return. I am littered with scars from beauty, Wounds left by the telltale beauties that might never heal. Yet here I am running down that path with hopeful smiles.
Perhaps this is my time, Perhaps it will end differently, Perhaps the ache is worth the wait.
Prince Diaries 