The Trouble With the Heart

The trouble with the heart

is that it can fit the whole of existence inside it, yet the right ones fill it completely, all by themselves, leaving room for no one else

is that it yearns to connect to everyone to whom it extends its tendrils, yet, once it’s conquered and claimed, its absent ruler cuts all such cords

is that it makes every misery feel as light and fleeting as a feather on the breeze, yet keeps it bearer awake with the weight of the world

is that it renders all the pain worthwhile, yet is the very rack upon which the most torturous binds are bound

is that it is tied to every other heart, dispelling all semblance of separation, yet in its incompletion ostracizes its bearer, thereby alienated from everyone

is that it cuts through all illusion, revealing the only thing that’s real, yet hounds with heaping horrors when hollowed-out of that one thing

is that it casts an image of every form of fortune into the mind, yet mangles that mind with the promise of the fortunes that it’s unable to find

is that it reflects and refracts and sings in endless reverberation of every form of beauty bouncing between its walls, yet is easily caved by the ugliness that beauty conceals

is that its calls block-out its ability to hear the calls of others, and that it aches with the echo of all the messages it sends to the mind unheard by our thoughts

is that its enemy is the ego, yet the ego so enslaves the mind that it tricks it into not heeding the heart, ever rousing its rebellion against it

is that it bears the burdens of every form of breakage bore by all to whom it connects, yet to bind these breaks it must break itself in turn

is that, though it torments and tears its bearer asunder, it is of its nature to renew over even the most wicked of evils, in order that all of it may be known again

is that it is as intimate with the bottomlessness of barbarity as it is with the heights of heaven, as familiar with the clipping fall as with the winged flight

is that it is as wonton in its weakening as it is staunch in its strengthening, as eliciting of envy and enmity as it is inviting of those that offer them

is that it is as doting on deprivation as it is finding of fulfillment, as forthcoming with the aches and the breaks as it is with the bounty that unity makes

is that it is both the darkness consuming the light, and the light expelling the dark, pounding with the paradoxes of its endlessly magnificent and miserable mysteries

is that it still belongs to you, and though you don’t want it, you cannot unclaim it, because it believes in nothing but its own captivity