My heart

I always thought my heart was brave, serious and strong. Pretty much a gentle man. Yes, I've always seen my heart as a masculine entity.

However, sometimes it would get weak. That would be on Friday evenings, Saturday mornings, whenever I got something blue in my hands, when it was cloudy outside and when I got to listen to my favorite songs. These were the times when I'd name my heart as a feminine entity. So stupid it would get, you see.

I had also my heart melting ... and that happend many times. I'd say it's pretty hard to melt my heart but, at the same time, there were a few guys who could certainly melt my hard pretty easily. In those situations, my heart wasn't masculine nor feminine; it was simply "it" - I don't know how to name this because there's no such thing in my language, but I know some people can visualize that in their language. Anyway.

There were these few times when my heart also got sick. Those were the worst, and I often wondered if I could die of a sick heart. Whenever my heart got itself and me into a drama, I worried because I remember this friend of my father's who said his father had died of love. Oh good god, how could love kill someone?! I don't know how, but I had to take good care.

This heart of mine, poor thing, also got sad sometimes. It'd start with my mind wondering why is it that people don't treat us the same way we do treat them. With my mind going back to that time in history that today is called a legend. With my empty hands searching for him, for you. With me thinking how people could be so cold and mean. I suppose it's none of my business. But it's unfair, it is.

They say you take all good memories (by good I mean relevant, be them good or not) in your heart. I don't think so. I certainly take most of mine in my mind, which is sometimes a terrible place. In my mind, which is a mess and that's how it works. In my mind, full of colors and words and ideas. In my mind, also so empty. In my mind, which I can't run away from. But I guess when I sleep everything goes to my heart and there they stay, sleeping. Sometimes they wake up - and I remember them. Sometimes they just keep sleeping ... and that's also called death.