It was the Ancient Romans who first suggested the idea of a broken mirror bringing seven years bad luck. This stems from another piece of Roman lore stating every seven years life would renew. And any broken parts of your life- would be fixed.
And here we are, surfacing from a 7 year war.
Ready for a renew.
And although I don’t recall breaking a mirror. Seven years ago my heart broke. Proper broke. And it’s been fumbling around my chest for years doing it’s best. Keeping me alive.
Seven years ago. Thousands of tiny heart shaped glass shards danced through my body, cutting all in it’s path. This was physically noticeable through my skin and hair. Internally this brought upon a new plethora of allergic reactions. And emotionally did quite a number on destroying all and any potential serotonin. In addition, adding a hint of abandonment issues for flare.
Seven years. Pieces of my broken heart have been raining havoc. Playing its own tune, swaying me back and forth. Rocking too fast to a very slow song while missing the beat every time. Two beautiful left feet of destruction.
Seven. The favourite digit. Numerology life path and today commemorated in years. I have danced with this number as the Romans suggested. Bunkered down and swayed. Taken hit after hit of emotional whiplash and awaited patiently to be released. My time is up.
Now walking in hope that my body can endure grief while taking less damage. Take more steps without getting cut from those broken heart-shaped pieces.
As I reflect back on the past seven years I search for gratitude from the experience. Some light buried underneath a heap of PTSD.
I have none.
Seven. Go fuck yourself, you’ve been a terrible dancer.