‘The True Heart’s Longing’ – a fable


She had no voice, this girl. She swallowed it in fear one day and like a flood, it was washed through her body and became lost in the quagmire of her fright. And so now she writes of her love. For this is her voice, her expression, her self. She wishes that she could give voice to her words and let them float like sweet music to fill the souls of whoever may hear them with the harmony of her love. Until that day, she writes; for you, for her, for the world. And she waits, her throat in chains, for the day that she may break free and sing to the stars of her desires and dreams and longings. So here she sits, this girl who swallowed a river, which became a torrent and drowned her voice deep in the earth. And so it floats back up, and here she writes, of love and longing and desire and all things precious and true and yearned for in this earth. And here it flows.

In her heart’s true longing is a love so deep, so true and so divine that all who hear of it fall under its spell and are instantly healed. When they hear of this love, their hearts, which have been afraid and tied down in the darkness of fear’s deep cave, erupt with passion and desire. These hearts grow in size so big, so big, that they burst forth from their caves and into the light. I saw this one day not so long ago. I saw this.

This girl who sits and writes because she has no voice sat out in the wind one day with her quill and ink and she wrote and wrote and wrote. She wrote of love and passion and desire and longing. And as she wrote her heart flowed with love for all of the people in the world and all of the animals and the plants and the angels and the planets and the moons and the sun and the stars. The words fairly flew from her heart and onto the paper. And as they flew, the wind picked them up one by one and lifted them off the rock on which she sat and carried them high into the air. They floated on the wind for a time, these words, enjoying the dance and the joy of it. And then, gentle as a kiss, the wind set them down in the opening of a dark and lonely cave. The wind did not want to stay near this cave and so flew on her way. And so sat these words of love and desire and longing in the opening of the darkest cave in the deepest corner of the forest.

Time passed and passed until a hand crept slowly forward and touched these pages as if they were made of the sharpest glass. It withdrew in fear of what they may contain. And so this continued for a time, this edging closer and then drawing away. Like a dance. The dance of fear. For really, in our minds, aren’t we all a little afraid of allowing ourselves to desire our true heart’s longing? I mean truly desire. That heart-filling, belly-twisting, life-affirming desire that sets your soul alight and leaves it burning for eternities of eternities. And so the dance continued for hours, for days, for years, for decades, until the hand grew weary and tired of repeating the same steps over and over and over, as if it had been doing the same dance with the same music for so long that it had worn a groove into the same piece of stone and now that stone was heavy in its heart.

Bruised and bleeding and forgotten, the hand one day could not see any other way but to give in to the fear of its own desire. It was either give in to it or die. And so soon the hand crept forward as it had always done and touched those yellowed pages as it had always done and slowly, slowly curled its fingers around the edges and dragged them back into the darkness.

Time passed and passed as the hand that clutched the paper told the arm, rigid in fear, to tell the shoulder, frozen in panic, to tell the neck, stuck in terror, to tell the head, held back stiff in the past, to tell the eyes, roaming in despair to read the words. And so, and so, word by word, sentence by pure sentence, this body reconnected with itself and came to read with joy these words of passion and love and desire.

Soon this body was so filled with love and longing that it burst from the darkness of the cave and into the light, like a wave unable to stop the force of itself crashing into the shore. And the light flooded in and so it was that a body and a mind and a spirit became renewed once more.

And what did she write, this girl who lost her voice and swallowed a river, which became a torrent and froze in her belly? What did she write that day?

Well what would you write if you really asked yourself, what is my true heart’s longing? What would you write?



Filed under Fiction, Inspirational, Love, Spiritual, Writing

13 responses to “‘The True Heart’s Longing’ – a fable

  1. Paul B.

    Where’s the bar perhaps…

    ..or just let me fly….. and no the two are not related.

    Hope you had a good start into 2008 Simonne!


  2. Doktor Holocaust

    I’m a bit skeptical about people not letting them selves desire their true heart’s longing. people these days glut themselves on satisfying every possible whim as soon as they think of it and keeping some of what they don’t want on hand in case they want it later, i see no reason why this “true heart’s longing” (as opposed to the longing of their fake heart?) would be treated any different.

    I would hesitate at first, not wanting to tie myself down to some single wish, when I know that as I grow and change and mutate and whatever, i will wish for different things. Then i will have a fit of cleverness and write “The power to grant all my own wishes.” and I think I shall babble on this theme further over on my own blog.


  3. Pingback: Doktor Holocaust and the Heart-shaped paper. « Holocaust Labs

  4. A somewhat dangerous question, Simmone, since, once answered, it begets harder questions: So what are you doing about achieving your heart’s longing and why the hell are you doing all this other stuff?


  5. I agree with Oscarandre, but that is the crux of your story, isn’t it? We sit afraid of the question and the answer like the person in the cave. I suppose this is a universal theme. What would the world look like if we could all follow our heart’s longing?

    Beautiful fable, lovely writing…and a big “thank you” because I needed to read it!


  6. Thanks Paul, you too!

    Hey Doc, will have to head over to you and check out your “babbling”!

    Oscarandre, yes, the hard questions all beget more don’t they? If you’re literally asking me that question, the answer is because this other stuff – assuming you mean blogging, healing etc – is part of achieving my heart’s longing 🙂

    Thanks Jeni. Yes, that is the crux of it really, and to me the collective hearts’ longing is really about being able to express Love in all its Divine glory.
    Glad you enjoyed it.


  7. poseidonsmuse

    Simonne…you are a painter. A magnificent word painter…and this piece was very magical. I would illustrate your words with sparkles…gilded letters and rich hues. Your words touch my soul. Beautiful work…

    Now get writing that book!!!!!!

    Lol! xoxo


  8. romi41

    Is that a rhetorical question? Because FOR ONCE, I will not tell the world what’s really going on inside my demented head…it’s embarrassing! (but maybe I’ll quietly ask it to myself when no one is listening 😉 )

    By the way, what beautiful imagery, all throughout that; a very nice, very visual read 🙂


  9. I think I’d write about all the different types of beer. 🙂 J/K… This was well, wow, thought provoking. I’m going to have to do some soul searching and really ask myself that question. So many of us sensor ourselves for others.
    Great post.


  10. venus00

    Interesting. When I look back on my life, it was in those years that I didn’t have a voice that I wrote. It was my sanity. Now that I’ve found my voice the words don’t come as easily and the ones that do come seem trite…


  11. Thanks Muse, so are you, and man would I love to see your artwork next to my writing! One day… 🙂
    Thanks Romi, you funny girl!
    Hey Kim, we sure do learn to sensor ourselves, you’re right about that, and I think kids are learning to do it younger and younger, which is such a shame.
    V, that’s really interesting, isn’t writing a wonderful tool for growth?


  12. poseidonsmuse

    Hmmm…as long as I am alive, I want to continue to grow, for there is much to learn, experience and share with others. If writing is a tool or “voice” (like art, sculpture or food) for expressing growth and this Soul’s interaction with this labyrinth called Life, then I shall write, paint and cook myself silly – with Joy and Appreciation.

    Having said this however, I think one’s voice changes as one ages to express the shades of “grey” that one experiences as they travel through life. One can never truly “know” or learn everything, thus, I think we do come to a point of acceptance and understanding with ourselves as we age (I’m sure that this process, in itself, is a type of growth).

    For me, the older I get and the more I experience I seem to obtain, the less I truly “know” [but, I don’t think I will ever want to lose my “voice” per se]. I think voices are important for a variety of reasons – not just as a means of Soul Expression, but as a means of sharing our knowledge with younger generations…This is something that I think our culture is lacking greatly now (transferrance of ancestral connection). One’s voice may become more tempered and elegant as one ages, but it does remain a valuable resource for oneself and others.

    I vowed to myself long ago to never stop growing and to never stagnate….[this rolling stone will not collect moss…]…

    Some very interesting thoughts here…these are just my 2 cents…and I’m sure that my opinion will change over time…

    Peace and Love…xoxo


  13. Love your “two cents” as always I do Muse. Isn’t changing our minds such a wonderful constant in life?


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