Maybe it was just me who was shocked as a child to find that the heart beating inside my chest was not this elegant shape of two tear drops unfolded, but a strange looking organ so complex that it made me feel like throwing up thinking “Oh my, that THING is inside of me.”
As terrifying of a revelation this was, I went most of humanity drawing the “heart shape” whenever I meant to draw a heart, for the actual image of a heart was terrifying. Perhaps it was the realization that something so complex and messy looking was what keeps me alive instead of the perfect picture that was so simple to draw, so easy to portray and give away.
It’s not like no one knows a human heart when they see it, or a portrayal of it. No, it’s very familiar, and even though it looked scary at first, I knew that’s what it felt like inside me when I saw it. The “perfectly” drawn heart looks great, pretty even, but it’s not going to keep you alive.
I suppose that’s how love is, eh? They show us a pretty picture we can’t imagine to be real and one day, we try to live on it and we fall, hard. Love isn’t that simple little picture you can hold in your hand, lay down and pick back up again. It’s either living inside of you, pulsing and thriving or it’s dying, scratching and clawing to be free again. It’s not a simple little picture, it’s complex, it’s messy, it’s strong and it keeps us alive. It might seem unappealing at first, but then you know that’s only because you want your simple version to be real, and then it becomes the most beautiful thing you’ve ever known.
Love has a pulse too, if you’re loving, it never stops. It’s not something you think about once and make sure to get it done, it goes with you every day, with every beat of your heart. It hurts, especially when you’re amid something like war, when your love is pushed away or met with hate, it’s akin to climbing a mountain with shards in your heart, but you press on because you wouldn’t do anything else. That’s love. It’s messy and it can be scary, but it’s beautiful.