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"There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love." - The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

I found this quote the other night. I consider the texts J. sends me. He misses me; he asks, "What does your heart say?"

But my heart has been preoccupied with the business of pumping blood, the oxygenation of blood, the circulation of vital cells. My heart does not need to speak, that is what my mouth is for. Noise is not speech; no poems can be discerned from the heart's steady thump, thump, thump, thump.

My heart will not falter nor procrastinate. It neither daydreams nor yearns. No heart indulges in wishing, for then it is a faulty heart, of poor muscle. A healthy heart simply throbs under skin, wedged among organs in a crowded body.

The metaphorical beckons, though: I could liken my heart to a city; a heart is, after all, a syncytium, a meshwork of cardiac muscle cells interconnected by contiguous cytoplasmic bridges. But comparing my heart to a city would suggest a defensiveness on my part: barricades, towers, moats and the like.

Perhaps I could, ah, compare my heart to a river, even though they are, at first appearance, different. But I envy rivers, all rivers, the river Corrib, which I see everyday on my way to school. It pulses on, no matter how low or rain-engorged, no matter the weather, no matter how many or little fish swim in it, no matter the drowning and the drowned.


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