Two Broken souls cant heal each other always💔

[pratyaya_23]

Sometime back I believed this:Sometimes, when two broken people meet, they end up healing each other. They fill up all the cracks that lie bleeding on their souls. They soothe the broken hearts into a peaceful rhythm. They have felt how much it hurts. So they care,they understand, they protect, they nourish and they last…. anonymous ( ‘coz I dont remember where i read this)

But experience showed something else, may be two broken souls can understand how it feels to be broken inside outside, they may care but two broken souls, two broken ppl cant help each other to heal. They simply cant fill up the cracks that lie bleeding. Infact noone else can heal the broken people, broken souls. It needs a lot of courage to soothe each other’s broken hearts into a peaceful rhythm. In reality, even if you are surrounded by so many ppl, but noone is coming to heal u, to save u. It all depends on u, how to heal n most importantly to know exactly wat u want to heal !! N in all this healing drama, time plays an important part ,’coz few stopped feeling these broken parts even though they knw broken pieces but feelings vanished!!

These quotes, words unnecessarily romanticized the things, give unnecessary hopes that oh someone will come who will soothe, apply soothing balm to the broken pieces…. but this all is bullshit n more stupid, bullshit n crazy are those ( like me😜) who wasted time by believing this.

In short, no two beggars can help each other, n also no richie riches can help them either……pratyaya singh

[baphometjez]

I recently posted this -

🤖⚠️The Marriage That Should Not Have Been

In the shadowed corridors of their shared existence, he treads with trepidation—a fragile moth fluttering near the flame. His mind, a labyrinth of fractured mirrors, reflects distorted fragments of her world. She, the keeper of memories, walks the haunted halls with a spine straight as a cathedral spire, her recollections etched in the cold stone of her gaze.

He, the Aspergian wanderer, stumbles over thresholds of unspoken rules, each misstep echoing like a cracked bell tolling in the night. His words, like moth-eaten tapestries, unravel in her presence. He weaves sentences with threads of uncertainty, hoping they won't fray and unravel into chaos. But they do—oh, how they do.

She, the woman with PTSD, wears her memories like a shroud. They cling to her skin, seeping into her bones. The scent of lavender transports her to a battlefield, where screams and gunpowder lingered in the air. He, oblivious, offers her a sprig of the same herb, and she recoils as if he'd thrust a dagger into her chest.

His mind, a fog-choked forest, conceals pitfalls. He forgets anniversaries, birthdays, the color of her eyes. She, the sentinel of time, remembers every scar etched upon her soul. Her gaze pierces him, seeking answers he cannot provide. He stumbles, a blind man in a labyrinth, while she strides ahead, mapping the twists and turns.

He, the unwitting provocateur, utters phrases that ignite her nerves like phosphorescent flames. She flinches at his innocence, her heart a wounded bird beating against the cage of her ribs. He, desperate to please, offers apologies like wilted roses, their thorns pricking his conscience.

Their relationship—a crumbling castle perched on a cliff's edge—teeters between abyss and salvation. He tiptoes across the drawbridge, unsure if it will hold. She stands sentinel, her memory a stormy sea crashing against the walls. He fears the next misstep, the next forgotten detail that might shatter their fragile equilibrium.

And so, he questions himself, each syllable a pendulum swinging between confession and silence. Is it safe to speak? To share the fragments of his mind? Or should he retreat to the shadowed alcoves, where whispers echo like ghostly hymns?

In this gothic tale of mismatched souls, he is the moth drawn to her flame, and she—the keeper of forgotten echoes—wonders if he'll ever learn to dance with her ghosts without setting the world ablaze.