A tower crane slumbers outside my window, its orange-coloured mast strong and sturdy. Its working arm juts out into the pale blue sky, almost like it is reaching out to grab the clouds that are sailing softly by, but is unable to release itself from the clutch of the crane’s torso. Right at the very edge, where the trolley sits, the hook hangs despondently from the heart-shaped weight that supports it. It wavers even with the slightest breeze, strong yet very fragile. On a daily basis, it is used as a tool, carrying other’s burdens up and down as the operator, lounging in the cab, deems fit.
Up and down it goes, never complaining. Even at rest, it is hung in the air, forgotten as the operator’s day ends.
Up and down until one day, it breaks down, broken. Irreparable. Then it is replaced.
Like my heart.