A hole in my heart
I am not rich—I do not own a happy heart. I own a beating heart that reaches out for help—I am a poor guy.
I walked with a hole in my heart. The trail ahead looks abandoned, frozen and isolated—bullied by the riches. I am not rich—I do not own a happy heart. I own a beating heart that reaches out for help—I am a poor guy—look at me Mama!—your boy ain’t a rich feller—he is just a guy with a hole in his heart. However, I emerge from my darkness, flirt with my conscience, and try to fit in with the masses. But the universe knows these folks scare me, they stare at me with an emptiness bigger than the void in my heart. These people aren't alive, Mama. They count their days, but death has long taken them, they are gone—the damage has been done—the soul has been sucked out of them.
Anyway, I keep walking. A tornado soars towards me, it laughs—its laughter echoing everywhere—its laughter piercing through my heart and when it made past me, I realised I have lost it all. I lost everything—my will to keep going. The heart is no longer there, Mama. Why did you give me a prone-to-disaster-heart, Mama? I am going to die with so many questions foaming out of my mouth.
Write in my tombstone, will you, that at least I looked for the missing piece of my heart. Remember me as a man who tried. Remember me as a man. Remember me.
The conflict stayed in me, Mama. I harmonised with Mozart, yet the emptiness knew where I lived. I walked with wounds, I walked with scars, but I don't need these scars, and I don't want to walk. I need to be tucked under flowers and mud. So that I can forget about death for a while. The journey was so exhausting I forgot what waited for me at the end. What if when death arrives, I am too attached to this life? What if death finds me when I have just begun to live? What if sadness finds me when I am laughing? Answer this, Mama.
You gave me a weak heart. You gave me too much morality and too much to consider. I cannot multi-task. I cannot endure pain and laugh. Sorry mama. Anyways, the economy huh? Sounds rough. What? Did someone bomb someone? That guy married whom? What is for dinner? Why did I fail? Why did I do that? Why do I exist? Why do I?
June 14.
11:53 pm. Friday night.