Friday, April 18, 2014

Hour arts of ruin


I don’t know a whole lot about hearts. Certainly not more than I know about spades, diamonds or clubs but on second thought I know more about hearts than about spades, diamonds or clubs. You can dig a hole with a spade. You can be a bad person and mine diamonds in Africa. You can party in clubs. But that's about it. I know a whole lot more about hearts than that. I stand corrected. Actually I’m sitting now but that’s the universally used phrase so I'll roll with that (I won't, I'm sitting. I'd have to lie down to roll). Who am I to tell you any different? I’m just me, myself and I, except when someone else is referring to me in second or third person, then I’m ‘you’ or ‘he’.

Anyway. I digress.

I know that hearts are red. It’s a solid choice of color. Red’s really rad. It’s a color highly concentrated on being focused. When you see red you see red; rest is just a background noise (sight) that you can hear (see) in the background, resting. There are things that are red and things that aren’t red. Red is such a superior color that it makes green jealous and blue sad. Hearts are red. They are pretty damn great.

I’m personally of an opinion that hearts are pretty damn great. I back this sentiment by an argument that hearts pump blood through your body and generally speaking keep you alive. They make you tick. They are of grave importance. Them and their pals: veins and arteries face an uphill battle every day. They are seasoned mountaineers. They climb the mountain of human existence for a living. If your heart was to stop, you would die. And trust me; there are better ways to spend your life than dying. At least up to the point where you just have to die. No escaping that one, brother. Until then; yeah.

Our hearts are excellent. Our hearts are like a heavy weight boxing champion. No, not a champion of putting things in a square container. Boxing. Sport. They hand out one hell of a beating, day in day out. Night in, night out. On the day the organ forms in our tiny little bodies hidden inside our mothers’ wombs, someone says something about rumbling and someone else puts red (see?!) boxing gloves on your heart and lets it loose in the ring. You can hear the bell. Round one.

Our hearts are filled with blood. Hot, red, red hot sticky blood that runs (actually, as it doesn’t seem to have developed lower limbs, it flows) through our body. I often wonder how is that possible, considering that blood consists heavily of iron. Can you make your favorite shirt look nice with blood? I don’t think so. You would have to wash your favorite shirt again after ironing. Which means you would have to iron it again. It's a vicious, bloody circle. If you want to iron clothes stick to that iron thing machine device and leave blood to do its primary job: keeping you alive. And try not to lose it, dude.

Anyway. I digress.

People who enjoy being alive should cherish their hearts and be grateful to them. People should take care of their hearts: eat well and sing them songs in a calming voice that calms the seawaves waves on sea. People should bake them a glorious cheesecake that has a distinguishable vanilla and lemon aroma (but only in reasonable amounts; you don't want to kill your heart) and say a couple of nice words like 'Hey heart, you're nice' from time to time. Else your hearts will be in ruins. That would come out as an undesirable outcome for all the parties and it would certainly ruin your weekend.

If I was living in Central America centuries before colonization of the continent I would gather up a group of like-minded folk: hearts enthusiasts. We would greet ourselves with hearty hellos and we would build shrines and altars to all the hearts. We would make sacrifices to them and chant chants. “Oh ye mighty Heart. Look kindly upon us for we bear you this gift of some description.” *slices the gift’s throat*

And now our civilization of prophets of hearts would be in ruins. The fading memory of our once great culture would be preserved merely in ancient ruins and skeletons. That kind of ruins it. Except it doesn’t, not really. We were there. We’ve seen some shit and we loved our hearts. Until other people came here and brought silly clothes, funny languages and guns and diseases.

As my final admission hear this: my heart was my favorite heart. Is that selfish? It’s not. It certainly isn't heartless. I don’t think so. Now another one is my favorite and it also became mine which is confusing. My previous heart was stolen from me some time ago. I know the perpetrator and I don’t mind. The perpetrator can keep it for as long as they wish. Just keep it warm and comfortable, okay? Give it a blanket and some cocoa, would you? I’ll do the same for yours (which is now mine; it's confusing). No ruins; no extinction; no fading; let’s keep our hearts alive and let them prosper. Let them pump that blood like a water pump that pumps blood and beat like Dr. Dre.

One day they will stop but at least we will get a good run. Or a good walk. Yeah, I prefer walks. They're a walk in the park. There's no running out of time.

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