I write from the heart.
I take things to heart.
I’ve experienced things that have broken my heart, but I still continue to put my heart and soul in to the things I love.
In short: my heart has a lot to answer for.
The heart is a mystical phenomenon charged with making the most important of decisions, and leading us in to battle against even our own heads. People in difficulty are told to take heart, have a heart; look inside their hearts. That’s an awful lot of responsibility for one organ, let alone its actual, literal job of pumping blood around our bodies. I mean, I can confidently say the liver isn’t pulling its weight in the field of abstract thought processes, and as for the pancreas? Don’t even get me started.
The heart has become a poetic device; a metaphor for love, and for life. The heart assumes the form of a childhood friend; someone that has known you so long they appear to know you better than you know yourself. Of course the heart is deeply embedded in the physical human form, but it also seems to have taken on the same transcendental qualities of the soul. Like a heart itself in transplant, the heart’s abstract form is taken as being separate from our other thought processes, and blamed for inopportune emotions and feelings in our otherwise autonomous bodies.
How dare we.
Our hearts provide us with life itself, yet we continue to place excess demands upon them, and expect of them, in ways that, should they manifest literally against our own actual selves, would constitute both physical and emotional abuse. The heart is in a constant state of providing, and true to human form, all we want is more. We are all familiar with resting our weary heads, but the heart silently soldiers on, through every long, arduous day, and dark, cold night without even so much as a tea break, let alone a thank you.
So next time you become aware of the pulsing beneath your skin, of the very lifeblood that courses through your veins, take the time to appreciate where it’s coming from, and just have a little heart.