after finding a new route home from work, the woman began to think about what she saw on her routine walk home just two days ago on a dreary Sunday evening. she began to obsess over that bloody, beat up heart. her heart. she seemed to forget it was her heart. it was clearly her heart but had no sentimental value to her. she didn’t care for it. she most certainly didn’t want it back.
but for some reason she couldn’t stop wondering what happened to it. It had been a long time since she had seen it. much longer than she had previously thought. maybe somewhere around a decade. yes, it had been about 10 or 15 years since she had seen her heart. she knew that for a fact, or else she would’ve remembered what it looked like before the old brown blood had congealed, and the inside of it had become rotten.she couldn’t recall the feelings it made her feel, or the pathways it led her down. the people who may have touched it, stepped on it, punched it, pulled it apart, twisted, or simply left to rot. all she knew was that it was her heart, and it was bloody, beaten, and now scraped into the bottom of a gutter.
perhaps she she should go on a journey to find it.. to feel it with her own finger once again or at least what’s left of it. to examine it just a little bit closer.
perhaps that would resolve her mental conflict.