The mind has a way of ensnaring its victims, and the worst part is we can’t run away. Sometimes, I want my heart to take over because that’s all I knew as a child, and I’m not ready to grow up. The more schooling I did, the older I got, the “wiser” I became, the less my heart caused shallow breathing, the more my mind fed me copious amounts of stale air. I’d rather have little, sweet air than my fill of tasteless breaths.
I had a piece of blank, white paper sitting in front of me, and a black pen. And that’s just all they are. And unless I set the pen on the paper, it stays blank and white and paper. And I mess up and scratch out a third of the words I write, and never finish the pictures I draw. I rip holes through to the barren, dry, wood desk beneath, white walls still any hope of a breeze. But I simply cannot forsake my mind.
But do I really want my tumultuous heart to have control? I’m afraid not… That only handed me the daggers. They may have been plastic, but they were looked so real, the steel blade ice cold against my fingertips, against my wrist, the tip of the dagger still pricked the skin on my chest. When I was in love, it was absolute ecstasy, and the colors of the world were grand and vivid and my head swam in them as it sang simple love songs.
And then love would hand me another dagger.
No, I wish not solely for my head, nor my heart. I wish they would gently caress one another, wind tightly so the seams between them would blur and scab and scar. And then, when the time is just right and the bud is formed, I could unleash them in harmonious spring. The bloom’s sweet scent would allow the pen to touch the paper with a steady hand, and paint all the pictures in me. And they would be real. And they would be whimsy. And there, I’d find Love.