Above all and foremost it’s a muscle that pumps. I see its strands of flesh, contracting and letting go, gushing red blood. The heart itself is also red, and the other heart behind it and in the center is red as well sometimes, but there the picture gets blurred. This heart often beats for the world it is in love with, and for A., who’s a gem in this world, and all too often the beats slow and speed up or, at worst, come to a standstill with A. and her perception – all unrelated to her, uncaused by her. Other heart stirrings are there, but I find they are much less distinct, in danger of subsiding, never really having a chance against this heart for A., this firmity, which in itself seems like a muscle, a ring, another ring of heart extending far outside the body. Ignorant, blissful A. – she has not the slightest inkling that a heart and a world depend on, palpitate with her graces. But then again it’s just one heart in the embroiled masses of hearts. Just one.
– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )
Written in approx. 9 minutes for Café Writing and its Love Letters project.