confusedalterego?

See, my heart is not made of such stuffs. It’s made of tissue, not love. It’s made of muscles, contracting and relaxing constantly, not a core of passion that leaps whenever I see you. That heart which you hear of so often is not my heart. My heart is that of a realist. It doesn’t beat for you; it beats for me. Me. It’s pumps blood through my veins and mine alone. It does not, I repeat, beat for you. It’s a heart full of things that keep me alive; it is not a heart full of love.

And if let’s say you were to pass on, my heart would continue to keep me alive. Still contracting, relaxing, doing it’s job. I am not tied to you and neither is my heart. My heart is independent and whether your heart lives or dies, it does not matter because my heart will continue to pump. It does not rely on you and it will not fail me because I am what matters, not you. And when you are dead and gone, my heart will not cry for you. My eyes might, but not my heart. My heart will remain objective.

Of late, my heart beats fast and slow at the same time. I blame you. You and your heart, you stupid incompetent heart. STOP INTERFERING. Leave your heart out of this as I am leaving mine. We cannot, we must not. Our hearts are not one, they are two and that’s how they shall remain. My heart cannot beat two different rhythms, it’s not prepared for that and neither is yours. Our minds may think the same, but our hearts don’t work that way. So keep your heart out of it.

My heart, it creeps inside, hurtling its way to the surface every now and then, reaching to see you. And I suppress it, yes that’s what I do. Don’t ask me why; you should know why!

Because if it hurtles any further up, it will all come spilling out. Everything. It will spill out and you will know everything about this little black heart of mine.

My heart is that of a realist who doesn’t know what is real.