Hearts. Sleeves. Other complications.

My close friends all know this: My heart has a different address to most people’s. No, not under my right armpit, no. But you’re close. It lives about 10cm up from there, outside my skin, on the edge of my collarbone. Also, because it’s been working hard all its beating life, it’s managed to acquire a small holiday property as well, on the opposite shoulder, where it can be seen working on its tan in the months when the sun is high, and the sky is blue, and the flies are absolutely every-freakin’-where! What a life, eh?

But enough about that indulging little thing, its residences, and its penchant for beating in all the wrong rhythms! What I meant by complications is that, people aren’t used to seeing your heart dancing naked on the top of your sleeves, tan or no tan, flies or no flies. Oh no they aren’t. And so wouldn’t they completely freak out when witnessing such a sight? OF COURSE they would. Duh! Rules of the society cleraly state that your heart is supposed to stay hidden, thumping away inside that cage, secretly telling you, and you only, about its desires. You’re supposed to put on a mask, if not a huge one or a balaclava, then at least some tiny eyemask or red nose or something. Anything but DO NOT let your heart out there shouting into a loudspeaker about its thoughts, ok? Transparency is not cool. Not even in fashion, no, not anymore. They’ve got slip-dresses for such purposes these days, remember? 

So, your heart is supposed to follow rules like everyone else, both written AND unwritten, such as: thou shalt not be friends with thy ex; thou shalt play hard-to-get and shalt not text after the first date; thou shalt play along even if thou art not interested in a guy because, well, it’s nice to get the attention. And last but not least, thou shalt NOT blog about any of the above for the world to see. Ha ha. Oops! That’s like double convictions, like commiting crimes while on parole, just unforgivable.

And yet I can’t bring myself to play by the rules, I can’t force myself to get caught in some crippling mind-games, I still can’t back up my mind to win in its “internal warfare” against my heart. That is how stubborn that little red beating thing is. After almost two years of total comatose, even I myself was shocked at how much vitality it had; how it, in one simple coup, reclaimed both of its abovementioned real estates. Heavily beaten and scarred, but it still has its devil-may-care ways and is adamant to follow them, who gives a toss about the consequences?

Maybe it’s time for a real change, maybe I should smother it, lock it up again, heavy sedation, maximum security prison, and all that jazz. Or maybe I should just be glad that the damn thing isn’t completely dead, as previously diagnosed; that it, in fact, is still very much alive and literally kicking; that after the craze, it whispered back to me, Hey boss, remember that other line you love? Another gem from who else but Mr. McCall Smith? That one that goes:The object of affection did not matter; the feeling did.” ?

Ah… that silly old thing…



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