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Is it any wonder that the ancient people thought emotions must stem from the heart rather than from chemical and electrical exchanges in the brain? When you miss someone deeply, when all you want is to see their face one more time, to hold them close, where do you feel the pain? It's not a headache I feel, but a squeezing ache in the chest. I find myself thinking about that person and suddenly I'm not breathing anymore. I remember the times we shared falling in love, and the way my heart skipped a beat, the way it seemed to swell in my chest when I looked at you. All that's left now is the ache.
You'd think, having "moved on" I wouldn't feel that ache anymore, but it's still there. I can't figure out now if it's because I still love you, or because I'm simply dissatisfied by my current life, and I'm retreating into my nostalgia. I often wonder if the you I remember is anything like the you that you are now.
I gave you my heart once... whole, and full of hope. I feel it's absence now like a hole in the chest.
Sometimes I wonder why it is we feel emotions in the area of the heart... is it just that all the hormones and chemicals flowing through there on the way to other places cause the heart to feel? Or is it something deeper and more mystical? In any case, though my brain may do the thinking, it is the heart that feels.
Damn this. Finances won't allow me to go to school, so I guess I don't have any choice besides Israel. (Does "besides" bother anyone else? Like I don't know the etymology, I think it's borrowed from French but I don't know its literal definition; I tend to look at things as concrete, like I see two orbs, one is "School" and one is "Israel" and they are beside each other. On a Poké Ball tray.) But anyway. I wish I could go to school. I wish my parents had any sort of faith in me.
I can't take any more of this, I want to come apart And dig myself a little hole inside your precious heart
Sometimes I think you're the first person I truly loved. I miss you. I miss my favourite one-man show. I miss the way we were so good when it was good. It was paradise. We were snug and secure in our cocoon of dreams, and plans, and hope. But all that's gone. Love doesn't dwell in your house any more. Love is dead Love is gone Love don't live here any more
I wasted an incredible thing in the name of living my life the way I thought I wanted it. How I didn't know that what I wanted was to be with you, in your arms, I'll never understand.
Eight months ago, I left my heart on a bench for a girl to pick up. She started dating someone, so I never let her know where it was. It just sat there, getting dirty and moldy and wet. Then I saw her this weekend, for the first time in months. It was still on that bench and I realized how unappealing it must be. I mean, who wants anything to do with a dirty, moldy, wet heart? It's home now. I peeled off the outer layer covered in all that grime, and I put the rest back in my chest. I guess that first layer is still on that bench, waiting for her. It's an ugly truth, but an obvious one: it'll take a bit of scrubbing to make it usable again.
I have a feeling that this is going to lead to a broken heart somewhere down the road, or at least a very bruised one. We both agreed that we don't really want a commitment right now, that we just want to hang out and have fun. I'm just not sure I'm good at the casual thing... I tend to be an all-or-nothing type person.
Oh well, one day at a time. I can deal with a broken heart later as long as I have no regrets now.
I fill the margins of my notes with little hearts. I draw them on bathroom walls. I make them sideways in instant messages.
Mine is defective. Mine is dangerous. Mine lands me in the hospital. Mine cheats, steals and wanders. Mine is part of a lonely club. Mine is never really in my possession. Mine palpitates sometimes.
Hearts look pretty in green glitter pen. They look different every time. Some are backwards and upside-down. Some are tattooed on to lower backs and hip bones. Some beat just a little bit faster. Some people trust them too much. Some people don't trust them enough.