A while back I wrote a piece of flash fiction entitled, “The Rock of Truth.” Although it hasn’t met with wide public approval (read: it hasn’t been published), it is still one of my favourites. It outlines the a very brief trajectory of a love affair gone awry. The turning point of the piece is when the narrator talks about being bashed on the head by the rock of truth. “The rock of truth weighs about a 1,000 pounds.”
Turns out the rock of truth weighs a good deal more than a 1,000 pounds regardless of why it hits.
Having the rock of truth score a direct hit tends to hurt; it positions itself directly on the heart. The term “heavy heart” keeps floating around and around in my head. My heart is a lump in my chest that drags me down and makes it hard to breathe – quite the opposite of the life-giving organ it usually is. The opposite of “light-hearted” is what I am.
Circumstances dictate that I carry on; pretend that I’ve not been felled by a 1,000 pound behemoth. Although the heaviness remains, life goes on. One of the hardest parts about getting hit by the rock of truth is the painful process of crawling out from underneath it. I have to look forward and not flinch every time a cloud passes overhead.
The bruises remain on my heart; they will fade, eventually. The shadow of the rock will shrink as time works its slow magic. Until the next time. There’s always a next time with the rock of truth.