There is no point in rushing oblivion
The imprint stays stuck in your heart for a while
For a reason.
An ember, a dried-up stick, half burnt.
What’s it still doing there, immobile. Seemingly useless.
I think sometimes
If it’s been thrown in under the right star sign
It becomes a crystallisation axis.
You don’t notice the embers becoming hollow and fragile, while the crystal around them grows,
Built from your own sap and tissue, slowly.
The scar needs to scaffold the shape.
Until one day the dry shell of an abandoned shape crumbles to dust and you see that you have grown something new, that is alive around it.
But the arrow had to be stuck in your heart for all this time, patiently. To keep the shape, to preserve the information, to mark a silent guiding axis by the angle with which you caught it into your being then.