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Somewhere, somewhere in the wide world, there must be a person with my name tattooed upon their heart. And that heart beats the triplicate rhythm of my name, a strange staccato, one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three.
The doctor in her white coat, once-upon-a-time, holding her stethoscope to a child’s narrow chest, frowning. “How do you feel?”
That child with shoulders faintly hunched, sitting on the bright impersonal vinyl of the doctor’s bench. Watching the doctor warily with eyes the color of my name. “Fine, I feel fine.”
That child, an adult now, walking this world, the song of my name murmuring through veins and arteries.
We look outwards for the solution to our problems, and it is neither right nor fair-- as if the world was in our debt, somehow, for presuming to exist around us. Such incredible arrogance to think that an unseen hand should have wrought the code of my self upon the person of another.
So, look inside for the answer. Split the skin, the breastbone, the ribs, the flesh, the latticework of blood, the pericardium, and swing the doors wide. Look at my naked heart and tell me what name is written there.
I know what you will find-- a lump of fibrous gristle, unmarked, beating the rhythm of no one’s name.
The doctor in her white coat, once-upon-a-time, holding her stethoscope to a child’s narrow chest, frowning. “How do you feel?”
That child with shoulders faintly hunched, sitting on the bright impersonal vinyl of the doctor’s bench. Watching the doctor warily with eyes the color of my name. “Fine, I feel fine.”
That child, an adult now, walking this world, the song of my name murmuring through veins and arteries.
We look outwards for the solution to our problems, and it is neither right nor fair-- as if the world was in our debt, somehow, for presuming to exist around us. Such incredible arrogance to think that an unseen hand should have wrought the code of my self upon the person of another.
So, look inside for the answer. Split the skin, the breastbone, the ribs, the flesh, the latticework of blood, the pericardium, and swing the doors wide. Look at my naked heart and tell me what name is written there.
I know what you will find-- a lump of fibrous gristle, unmarked, beating the rhythm of no one’s name.
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