Everyone dies from a broken heart;
everyone.
Everyone.
What makes it worse (does it get worse?) is that it’s no longer a heart for each of us. Was that ever true? I believe it was. I remember the Before Times, because I have books. And though fiction is a notorious liar, I think that all fiction of the Pre-Impermanence Times had to tell more compelling lies because it was difficult to go back and change what you were mistruthing.
Now we have distributed heartbreak.
Oh, I’m sure individual heartbreak is a thing. But like individual emotion, or individual desire, it’s hard to go up against consensus reality. It’s hard to disagree with what everyone else knows to be true. It doesn’t even matter where that knowledge comes from.
And we all know our heart is broken.
Did we expect better of each other? Of ourselves? I’m sorry; if we’ve democratized information, then we’ve run into the Tragedy of the Commons inherent to that kind of circumstance: once we realize we can legislate that others give us happiness, we start losing the will to make ourselves happy.
Don’t worry; I’m not moralizing. (what, me, moralize?)
But if there’s one thing you get from having a vast world of electronic knowledge always nearby, it’s the simultaneous sense that you’re doing far too much, and also not doing anywhere near enough.
Our heartbeat is a drumbeat of fire, which seems extremely unhelpful, as fire makes crinkly noises and sometimes roaring noises but seldom makes rhythmic banging noises, but I’m not letting go of the idea that we feel like we have to dance like monkeys and also we’re on fire.
I’m sure there are times when it’s best to give over your heart to the rest of humanity, but this isn’t one of them. It’s hard to find one or two people who will treat your heart carefully; you can’t expect it of millions of people. It’s not like they’re kind with their OWN hearts.
The best people are busy worrying that their hearts are inadequate, which leads to panic attacks; and the worst are busy trying to drive the others into panic attacks so they can steal our stuff.
Everyone dies from a broken heart; it used to happen because of people we knew, or thought we knew; now it comes from people who don’t even pretend to know us.
I don’t know about you; I’m going to take my heart back and give it over completely to words. They’re pitiless, and they’re often wrong, but at least they never claimed to be kind.
