Writing My Heart Out

I wondered this week, how heart surgeons got past the rib to the heart. I found it out: they saw through the sternum and open the chest like a book.

This is what I feel the need to do to myself.

Badoom, badoom, badoom – there it is on the page to steady me.

Bad doom bad doom bad doom but it is constant, being reassuring. Without thought. That squeeze roots right down and shapes my cloudy thoughts; water vapours of fantasy are blinked away; the air I breathe becomes solid. No longer disembodied.

These inner thoughts are not as dark as the words I can find to express them seem. A cloud is not dark after all, but bright, and fluffy looking. I am not lost in the clouds, I am simply transported by them, floating, up and out of my me-ness, to become something other… and than I stumble into a wall, a real one, and find that I have been somewhere else entirely. But I am surely my body as well as my mind, and this conscious doing, conscious processing, is necessary to bind the two together.

It has become a habit to disengage from reality, so I must write my heart out to make my dreams come true.



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