The Heart of a Sensitive Being.

I have sat with my cell phone in the last hour, contemplating upon the credibleness of its functions. Either its functions have deprecated over prolonged abuse or the expected caller has forgotten to place the call. The chances of the latter are more eminent.

I suffer this melancholic fate as I suffer the throes of medical diagnoses which have increased terribly in the years past. Among these diagnoses, which claim great researches and promising alleviation, there is one diagnosis that remains uncharacteristically hidden. It has moved at a peripatetic pace and has gripped me in its encumbrance like that of a boa constrictor’s.

I bear the heart of a sensitive being.

Throw me a glance or make me the centre of a jest and see me wither into a compost of barren bones. I do not believe that I could be reduced with such ease but history depicts me as rather a vulnerable being, incapacitated highly when it comes to matters of love and of the heart. There are of course, grander mannerisms that are worthy of discussion but the heart of a sensitive being warrants a slight composition as this.

As the sun rises to announce the morning, I lift this invention that promises immediate communication to see whether any message has travelled the nether to reach me. But, even as the night gathers momentum, there is silence alone that remains amidst the aching heart.

A lover’s absence is the foremost act of violence for a sensitive being. Then follows the absence of patience to see a loved one in their truest light, to see them at their most vulnerable self, and to see them in the eventuality of the manifestation of their pain.

In each history, someone has awaited someone – a letter, a call, an appearance. They count on this act as a means to affirm themselves that even in the darkest human hours love can seep through as is its cosmic nature. This simple act, this presence that the lover can offer, can alter the universe because proclaimed love speaks the loudest.

But, when this act is not performed, the lover commits an incarceration, a procedural renunciation of the heart of a sensitive being. The magnitude of this impact varies in how prolonged the being has sensed this earthly pain.

The transient nature of humanity – that we are all moving towards death – is the only respite from such afflictions. Love, how have you managed to survive, what hope has kept you alive amongst the infidels – the fools who measure you and the commonest wise who wish to experience you?

 The heart of a sensitive being cries so. But, it also prays that if you find love, know that your life has been brought justice and that now when you die, grass will be borne on your earth.


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