Heart

I sometimes wonder about the intentions of the heart, that pulsating organ that is both deceitful above all things and still somehow bears love and happiness in its bosom.  Its untrustworthy reputation gives hindrance to reliability and credence, and yet I blindly entrust it with safeguarding my distinct love for others and the reciprocated happiness they bring.  It bears witness to my unraveling emotions, and holds my secret affairs in its charge.  And perhaps for this very reason the heart is considered deceitful and mysterious, because it holds what is most dear in the palms of its hands all the while ransoming one’s secrets to the highest bidder.  It competes with the mind for attention and then, when it has conquered it, vengefully conspires with it to subjugate me in an emotional upheaval.

But despite knowing this, I cannot deny that the love and happiness that is harbored in the heart surpasses even the most deceptive of its machinations because my intention is not to let go of that which the mind contends with but the heart desires with passion.  After all, who can understand the mysteries of the heart?