At the end of all the smart thoughts and bold decisions and colorful gestures you ask yourself, How do I show him my heart?
We just aren’t raised to do this. Or maybe I wasn’t. Be reasonable, rational, and smart, is what I heard growing up. But the passion, and deep deep knowing, of your emotional center – it’s not reasonable.
We walk around with a purple striped velveteen tiger prowling our chests and are supposed to “tame” her with objectivity, and calm. The matters of the mind. These are right, and profitable, and secure.
Smart is secure.
It’s as though this velveteen tiger purrs so deeply, I am often deafened by it to hear reason. Over-compensating, the inner bureaucrat says, Let’s put her in a banker’s box marked Messy.
Strangely one box is never enough… there is always another unreasonable (untamed) part of you to silence. Duct tape around the box, now, and here are more, and stash them up in the attic, under the eaves. Unlabeled. Don’t let’s speak of that again.
Insert World War 36. Armistice announced through clouds of cannon smoke. Soldiers stagger home on crutches. It occurs to everyone that if, in death, we are united, so we could be in life.
Now the tiger and the bureaucrat are old friends. Together they escape in the night with all the untamed. Anastasia’s family, and goblins who speak in pentameter, and a chef with a plastic knife made by Mattel, pile in a gypsy wagon driven by the Glitter Goddess from a 1980s cartoon. Because you stifle stifle stifle stifle all the urges of your dark and stormy heart, until what is left is true. The passion is true, and the reason is true, and the party between them truest of all.
As the wagon rides into the darkness, the tiger purrs, Anastasia wishes on stars, and the bureaucrat tallies miles. At the whip, the Goddess’s hair is a golden banner against the night sky.
In this chaos, your heart, delightfully, is finally betrayed.