“Your heart will become a dusty piano in the basement of a church and she will play you when no one is looking. Now you understand why it’s called an organ” -Rudy Fransisco
I remember when they asked me if I’d like to be an organ donor at the DMV. I was seventeen and my response was: “Sure”. It’s bizarre to think about. Some stranger asks you if it would be okay to take the things that are supposed to keep you alive and place them inside somebody else, hoping it works out better for them. And they ask you as simply as they ask your first name. But, I always thought the answer was easy: “Yeah, sure”. I mean they should do that, really. What does it matter if I won’t be there to feel it?
Two kinds of people tend to get called crazy – one feels too much and the second feels nothing at all. I often wish I were the latter. I’ve lived my whole life feeling things very intensely. If I can’t feel it deep in my chest, is it worth anything at all? It certainly doesn’t belong to me. Might as well give it away.
I spend a lot of time thinking about feelings: how all-consuming they can be, how strongly one person can feel for another, and how we can never completely understand how someone else feels. The feeling of love especially consumes me. I always thought it was the sole purpose of life. I have never taken romance lightly. I have always let it drag me down by the collar.
Lately, I’ve been jealous of people who treat love like a game. I have never once wanted to play. I meet someone great and wonder if he’s the best man I’ve ever met or if I’m about to go head-to-head with the best player in the state. I think I could learn the rules and win, send the opponent home crying. But I never wanted to be a champion. I just wanted to be the head in the crook of his neck.
I sometimes wish I were heartless. I sometimes wish I were less human. I wish I were cold and detached. I wish I liked walking away. I wish I wanted to play this game. It is exhausting to care. I try to care quietly. It is hard to be quiet. It’s hard to walk out the squeaky door. I find it all so hard. I find myself on my laptop in the middle of my sleepless night looking up ridiculous questions. How to forget someone exists. How to be stoic. How to stop a feeling.
I know it will fade eventually, though it feels like it’ll weigh me down forever. I can’t help but wish that this will be the last time I am so overcome with emotion for somebody. I try to build walls. I try to protect myself. I consider sharpening my teeth with my nail file. If I can get the timing right next time, I’ll consider biting before I get bitten. I’ll consider playing to win.
But then, I think of the glossy photo of seventeen-year-old me on my driver’s license. The girl in that photo hadn’t broken anyone’s heart yet, and no one had broken hers. I think about the shrug she gave when asked about the organs. If I could go back in time, I would never tell her to care less or to learn how to be made of steel. I wouldn’t ask her to be less human or to give less of herself away. I would laugh and let her go so she could learn how to walk away and how to protect herself. So she’d see what I know now: It is a privilege to have a hopeful heart. It is a greater privilege to give it away.
So while I’m still around to feel it, let it beat the way it beats.
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