A War of Head Versus Heart

Sometimes it seems like quite the daunting task to have this blank page open before me. I come here with the intention of putting my thoughts onto "paper", but as soon as I see the crisp, stark white of nothingness, my mind goes blank. 

I worry about being too raw, too honest or not funny enough. Which, if you think about it, is silly. This is my place - my outlet - to write what I want and what I'm feeling; why should I be concerned about the outcome? Or what other people think? 

Regardless, the doubts seep into the inseams of my brain like gravy on mashed potatoes. 

Do I really want to write about this? Yes, you do, mutters my heart. 
Do I really want to put myself out there? Why not? My insides shout. 

It's forever a constant battle of my heart arm-wrestling my brain for the championship belt of who's right, who's wrong and who gets to overtake the actions. 

I guess therein lays my problem. My heart usually wins. 

And I let my emotions get the best of me. 

For example, I'm not very good at "not giving a fuck" though I very much would like to be. I wish I could throw my hands up in the air after a crushing blow to that beating thing in my ribcage and yell "zero fucks given!" But I can't. I can't close myself off from feeling things. It's not how I'm wired and I certainly don't see it changing anytime soon. 

When I feel something, anything at all, it's prominent. When I feel left out, my gut clenches in hurtful waves. When I'm angry, my whole body gets hot and my tongue could spit knives if I let it. And so on, and so forth. 

Because of that strong sense of emotion flooding through my veins, my heart grows in size. It's like a power punch of steroids for an already bigger-than-normal vessel. And when it gets to the point that my heart might burst, it overtakes the quiet whispers of wisdom from my brain and acts out. More often than not, it does something stupid. It wants answers, it wants closure, it wants release. The pressure is too much for the delicate organ. 

In retaliation, the throbbing heart sends a numbing agent to the brain, hushing any disagreement, and overpowers the muscles, bones and figments of the body. 

It activates the fingers to type texts that shouldn't be sent. 
It spurs the tear ducts to start glistening. 
It molds and twists the tongue into words that shouldn't be uttered. 

It does what it thinks is best at that given moment, in that particular situation. Murmurs of consequence echo in its beat, yet it feigns deafness. 

My heart. The savage creature when pumped full of emotional adrenaline. Add a splash of alcohol to the mix, and it's even more of a reckless being. The potent concoction spins violently through the beast, causing it to fake the "no fucks given" attitude with ease, sparking curiosity that demands the difficult answers... until the liquid courage wears off and the heart shrinks back to it's normal prowess. 

And I'm left to pick up, and overanalyze, the pieces the beast left behind - the bits of mangled relationships, the overzealous texts, the honest truths - all fluttering in its wake. The heart, now tame in its cage of ribs, shies away from the assumptions, the questions, the lust. It beats in its usual rhythm with no hint of apology. 

My heart allows me to love big, but it also has an alter-ego that some people don't understand. And that's okay because I don't always understand it either. 

For now, that bruised and beating entity will occasionally take on a heavyweight battle with my head, placing the championship belt around it's aching knees. 

And I'll feel again.



 - A