Yes, the heart. That vulnerable thing which you would represent that it is marinated by time and events, ready to be fried that some creature waiting for years upon the sidelines may have its pleasure finally appeased in the eating thereof.
Yes, I will say things out of the heart for the moment. Have I got your attention? Hmm.
The treasury of affections, emotions, overwhelming inundating floods of aspirations sparked by beauteous handouts and holdouts. Promises which never underwent construction, edification. Dreams, those things of that citadel we refer to as the nonphysical heart. It is a satchel, withered and torn, yet what it carries can bring a tear to the eye and at the same time flowers, chirping birds competing with one another in harmony. Butterflies and rainbows, little girls dressed up in anticipation that someone will say; “My look how pretty you are.”
Yes, look how lovely they appear. Appeared. But now they are in the satchel, a satchel withered and aged. The contents thereof diminished in effect, no more to cast their power over the individual who has experienced their lost luster. All they mean now is “Breath cut short, deprived of its life-giving fount.”
But it needs be that we should have undergone those things, been under the influence of such.
For it was but a masterpiece we but aspired to achieve. It was merely a work which represented. A tell-tale work.
It said many descriptive things of us. And of ownership.
Of configuration. Constitutional makeup. If we could but see, but understand our desperation. Futility is in it, yes, oh yes. It is a circle quite and not unlike that song by the Bee Gees; I started a joke.
Futility, yes futility.
I spoke to a young man once who not unlike Sartre’s saying that “Man is forlorn” because God has left him to work things out on his own, attempted to make a case to me for his disappointment with God. God was unfair according to his assessment. That being the reason why he could never come to, make peace even, with God.
The guy in the Bee Gees’ song is trapped in a Twilight Zone type circle of futility. He started a joke. The joke was believing in an ideal. Worshipping, performing obeisance to this ideal. A work of the heart, a fiction. He fell out of bed hurting his head from the things which he’d said. Things born out of the dreams nourished by the heart, a service to the ideals.
I know what you’re thinking.
The joke wasn’t believing, but instead, it was a childish mishandling, perhaps even a testing of a pact of love, romance. A disabuse of trust. Annulling trust. And so he lost. But these are just the trimmings ladies and gents. The trimmings. The deeper and philosophical culminations are more substantial and profound dear friends. We must look deeper. Yes, deeper. Deeper because we require the building of ideals. To erect values. It is the absence of a thing within which must be given voice to. (and the music goes round and round, ohohoh ohoh and) It comes out here; Human Drama.
The ingredients of the song; Futility and Contrast. Now……
He cried, the world laughed, he died, the world lived. Contrast. Life goes on, Futility. No matter what we undergo no one can truly feel what we go through, they go on living unable to feel what we feel, we cannot look towards them for deliverance, in fact, they are in the same boat; Unable to rely on us.
But life is merely a mirror, a picture painted upon a canvas, and it is our drama which smears that canvas. Futility, why? Because for whom are the canvasses of our lives painted? Man sees, yes sees further, gains wisdom at the doorstep which leads to the other side of that Veil. I have seen the eyes of the dying. They see. Life is deceptive and promises naught.
The heart is fickle. Yes, fickle. It deceives us and merely attempts to deceive the Creator of the universe.
Now, a song
If you wish to discuss this work, perhaps in reference to life and God, contact info is provided below. Thanks for reading.
I can be reached at turbans713@email@example.com, and at Facebook as Miguel Angel Oquendo (of Huachuca City, Az)
Or you can contact these folk; Rev. Bob Schembre (Missouri), or Ministerio APG (Pastor Angel L. Oquendo, Spanish, and English, Florida) both on Facebook