That head-on-heart stuff
When I can’t sleep and the clock keeps ticking, I like to lay here in the dark and imagine what someone might say to me that could make me feel deeply okay; you know, with my head on their heart, their hand on my cheek, the earthling reassurance. THAT HEAD ON HEART STUFF. You know.
It probably doesn’t exist. Isn’t possible. No words. No person. Maybe you get right words but wrong hand. Maybe you get right heart but wrong words. Never both. Right? Who gets both? Maybe some people do. What do I know.
Seems like I just enjoy the idea more than the reality. I mean sheesh. Who in this world could ever, in a thousand lifetimes, be so perfect that their physical presence was as comforting to me as their words? I’m too stupid to allow both at the same time, anyway. If your words soothe me, then I will find failure in the rhythm of your heart beat. If your heart quiets me, with its sweet little one-two one-two, then your words will sour in my ears and fill me with contempt.
Okay stupid isn’t the right word. I’m not stupid. Simple maybe? But simple in a very simple way.
You guys are these glorious multicellular organisms. Look at you, with your intricate designs. all your specialized cells working together to collectively support and carry out all the basic functions of being a normal human adult.
And then here I sit, with my boring unsophisticated one-cell schtick. The rich complexity of human life? lost on me. just a little old single cell, churning out and spreading her garbage. Nothing working together here. No siree! You say provincial, I say paramecium.
So yeah I might want a fellow earther to caress my cheek and say things designed to make me feel deeply okay, but I lack the grace to accept it when it’s right in front of me, and yet I’m too foolish to stop wanting it.
And besides. That person doesn’t exist. He just does not exist.