A Published Heart


Carlos is playing some sweet orchestral mayhem, and it awakens in me a sort of breathless monster shot full of emotional bullets, preforated to death by talk talk talk.

Sometimes I hate talking. I’m even worse at it when edging near some silly truth. I noticed that I can only speak candidly around few, and writing chose me so that I may learn to open my mouth to everyone. Sweetness, for me, is derived by unspoken thoughts. It doesn’t want to talk (yes it does). Urge is driven, of course, by impulse, and so I haven’t the time to write down instincts – only contemplate the aftermath on paper or…. by blog. There is always some sort of aftermath, some sort of silent, polite explosion.

Hm. I’m a weird one. This I know. I don’t mind, though. Maybe it’s because I’m feeling fearless nowadays.

I am. It’s most likely why most of my stories are filled with horror or suspense. I like the idea of containing fear in a plot, in a twist, or through my character’s eyes. Though, I haven’t written anything that scares me yet, I’m getting terrifyingly close to something aims to shake my nerves…

…Maybe it’s romance. Or disappointment. Or rejection. I think disappointment is paramount in my fear. The disappointment that the stories told to me when I was a child just don’t make sense anymore. The disappointment that the stories I tell to myself are no longer relevant. They only applied to yesterday, not today. Lessons change. People change. What scares me tomorrow is but a fly on the wall today. A flea. Until it bites.

A recurring element of my dreams is that I’m not talking at all. But someone else is. There is a narrative. There is a rhythm to the way it spills out words, how each syllable copulates with the essence of a dream – squeezing juice out of the subconscious grape. What does this narrator sound like? Dunno. I can never quite remember things as they really are because I’m thinking all of the time about everything. But the images, I remember. Pictures pounded into the brain like real live memories. That naked woman lying on the bed. She wasn’t really there at all. The way you kissed me… was it you? Did you even touch me? Maybe I want her to be there waiting for me like she did when I slept. Maybe I wanted you to kiss me just the way that I needed. Maybe I need more of it now, right now. This very goddamn second because I’m not dreaming. Ah! Every story is filled with desperate characters, characters who are driven to desperation out of fear of change, or – what is most common in all of humanity – fear of what they cannot change, or do not want to change. Fear of satisfying themselves with little to no progress of the psychic persuasion. That is the story of our lives.

Maybe my mind is crafting a story of its own. My heart is writing all of the time right now… placing picture on top of make believe memory, although My heart is far more oratorical than I can ever be.

Anyway, things on paper are always permanent, even if the content and the meaning of that content is not. Hm.

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