Scheherazade85

Just when you thought that the brick wall has hardened and has become impervious from a tiny prick, you discover that the brick is a mere cardboard, revealing a hollow interior from where all the strong emotions emanate. Then, an unforeseen blow maims you.

There’s no place I’d rather be than the office—the mundane routines, the inanities of call-taking, the shallow conversations, the dullness of the computer screen. It’s the most comfortable blanket that I could find. At home, the only music that’s melodious to my ears are songs such as Fool on a Hill, You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away, Let it Be, and Something, all by The Beatles and some of Damien Rice’s. Instead of aiming to be uplifted or to be liberated from the kind of pain that paralyzes, the heart tends to snuggle between the sheets made of the fabrics of misery and desolation. Somehow, there is a certain kind of pleasure in the state of falling and feeling the nearness of the abyss. I think that the heart matter, the reason why it has such a general label, unlike brain-related diseases such as dyslexia, psychosis, etc. is because it is fringe—it belongs to the world between the real and the unreal, the limbo, the middle earth of man’s existence. There is no medical remedy that directly cures a heartache.

With Krissy gone for good, I only have Kristoffer as my seat mate. So I asked him what he does when he’s depressed. Without answering the question, he suggested that I go to amusement parks—do something exhilarating to dispel all existing emotions. Enchanting, I thought, but the temporariness of the suggested solution doesn’t escape me. I asked him to sell me a comforting thought. He said he has none. Because he does not think about it, just feels it, and trusts that it will go away eventually, like everything else. Sold! There goes the wisdom from simplemindedness and the apparent bane of deep thinking and foolish attempts at rationalizing.

Having recognized that heart matters belong to the realm of the fringe, if one ever wants to bring a remedy to it, then one has to go through the irony of bringing it to the plane of reality by feeling it and fearlessly sticking to that feeling, than attacking it with reason, until the feeling evaporates, like all else. I guess I could make use of a hidden wisdom in a friends’ blog, when he was all messed up—nights of trash talk, mornings with puke at the bedside, series of hangovers, maybe all the elements of the Dark Age—but having the balls to take it all in and DEAL WITH IT.