Lang Leav: Keys

Lang Leav: Keys

Notes: I know there’ll be coming a time when I will rave about how heart gripping Lang Leav’s poems are, and I feel that tonight (or today) is the right time to do so,

Okay, so according to Leav, some hearts have keys. It’s interesting to know why. I mean, we all started as innocent little babies in this race. And unless if one of us is Chucky, the notion of trusting was an easy verb to grasp.

In fact, there’s this childhood game where I can associate this with. The Open the Basket game. The game where the basketless chick would cry out, “Open the basket!” And in an instance, arms are opened and the chicks are free to go wherever “basket” is still open or unoccupied. It’s interesting to think that as kids, people can easily open spaces for other people they’ve only met a few days or minutes ago. But as time passes, a lot of arms become stiff and a lot of baskets become fortresses. By the time one reaches adulthood, the ability to have an open heart becomes a gift- a rare commodity.

I am one of those who aren’t spared of keeping such gift. Something went wrong during my puberty years that made me distrusting. I, too, have decided lock my heart. And I can’t help it. Like the game, I’ve kept mine close because a past hurt is still lingering there- unable to accommodate new people who are or maybe in search of a place they would want to call home. Often. I wish I can reboot the past events so that the now¬†wouldn’t be so distrusting and awkward.

But of course, I can’t. I’ve already realized that there’s no undoing of the past. And that what really matters is NOT what happened but how one deals with it. However, I cannot deal with this ALONE. I need an outside help, someone who would speak words of life to me. Someone who would shout, “open the basket!” to set things in motion again. Or at least, to weather the lock that I’ve put on my heart.

Your words are the key to mine.” The poem says. And I find it very true. If not for the people who encouraged me and pushed me to get out from my closet, I think I’d still be the darkroom girl who has a limited, black-and-white point of view. And probably I still had the same bob cut I had for years.

I’m not saying that I’ve managed to open my heart entirely again. Heck, I don’t think I’d be able to manage that even for a handful of years to come. There are still areas in my life that need fixing, insecurities that need assurance, and a load more. But one thing I find out in this poem is that words are powerful. They have the power to free or to lock one’s heart. The words I hear can either nurture or destroy me. At the same time, the words I use to open one’s heart can either bring healing or corruption.

I should have not forgotten the words I used. And I should be careful with the ones that I’ll be using.

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