At first I think it might be a peanut but it looks too malleable. Then, just for a moment, in the background, I see a river. But the river rushes past and there it is again, this soft amorphous blob. I breathe deep and zoom in and then I see it. It is a sponge, one of those natural sponges that you buy on the promenade on Spanish holidays. It is pale brown or goldish, with wibbly edges, like a cloud. It is full of holes.
I think about my heart full of holes and I see blood, spilling from pores. I cannot survive with a heart that is punctured in so many places. Plug up one hole and the blood will just divert and spill from another ruptured place. I can't cover them fast enough. Maybe I should stop trying.
It is absorbent though, this sponge heart of mine. It can hold a lot. It sucks up all the damp pain of the world and sits, sodden and heavy at the centre of things. It is a cushion full of tears.
I will cry until it is wrung out, until it is transformed, light and airy as the clouds where I see you now. Not all holes need to be repaired. Holes let in the sun. They let us breathe. There are cracks in everything. That's how the light gets in.
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