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.
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