The Shape of Your Heart
The Shape of Your Heart
In my hand, and I feel the rush of blood in my veins as I hold it up in triumph. Was it worth the scream and the anger and the spill of all the hate a river can bring in its rapids? Now, in this world where I feel we are shifting into transitional breeds. Not like we used to be five years ago, and not like what we’ll become two years from now. The hate finds a thriving environment in this age of digital grids and metal vests. I lost taste in food and desire in love. I lost track of feelings I used to find divine. Even emotional at times for a man marked by callousness and fractured by millions of thoughts.
Your heart is not personal. It is not about love, but it’s about an object I seize in my hand and squeeze the life out of as if it were alive. And in doing so I imagine the pain I inflict on my enemies, evil men. Men I have never met, but I deem to be the cause of… of what? This is where I tend to squeeze more, looking for a strong reason to hate what I project elsewhere. Why did I suddenly become a man walking on the dark side of earth? I see the world through lenses that reel all that I want to see and avoid all that is not meant to be seen.
When I screamed awake from my sleep, I know I carry a whole world of battles inside me. I know deep down beyond the shape of your heart, my heart, that The world is just what it has always been, a human experiment.
