Fucking hearts...

          There's no hole in my heart. There's no great gaping wound, or irreparable bruise. There's only a persistent thump, thump, thump, thump... My heart is not at fault here ; it simply drones on, pushing me forward through days. The idea that it decides anything other than our current living status is so silly, hardy entertain-able. The dictatorship it supposedly holds over love and emotion is the grand delusion. It simply circulates. While the rest of me is bedlam.
           Everything else lives in bombardment by a million emotions and senses and synapses a minute. If there is a soul, its in my eyes, my hands, known to me without question because during some great pain of the supposed 'heart', everything they see turns meaningless and mirage-like, everything they touch feels like the immutable pulse of the very earth. The stupid heart just beats on, like nothing happened, while the eyes and fingertips alert you that the world is dissolving under you.

Begin.

To Persephone,
      Who may or may not ever exist.

     There are more lines on my hands than I remember. A small silver ring on the left one catches me off guard once in a while. They're not always as graceful as before,  less patient with a pencil, sore after cold days. And this skin is not the skin that swam in rivers and climbed forest towers and wandered on long walks  through town at ridiculous hours. These hands I'm writing with have never held my father's, or touched the steps of the Lincoln monument, even though I did those things less than a decade ago. My point is, Percy, we change. Oh, do we change...and its so fast!

      There was a night last week just after the new year, that I suddenly 'saw' myself as I fell asleep. Its dizzying. How did I become this person with a real live house and dishes and laundry soap, and a husband of all things, and a driver's license at age 25. And being 25 means I've been on and part of this world which my feet touch every day , for a quarter century now. I don't tread on just the ground, or dirt, or shoes...that really is the world underfoot.
     In my quarter century of change and life, I haven't left many thoughts laying around written down. I came here to do just that, and it might be rambling, or it might be useful to you one day, but regardless here it is. Its a chronicle, I guess, of quiet things that fill up my thoughts. I'm leaving them for you because you're one of them. I wonder if you'll ever come to be with us, what you'll be like, how you'll change absolutely everything.  So I'll leave things for you if you want them, that I wish I could say to you, or simply can't say to anyone else. 

   

  Next time , maybe I'll tell you why you got your name.

Love, 

    Me