The heart is a fickle organ. Played on by fingers and footsteps on pedals. We must have evolved to be emotional. I do not believe it is a curse. Or a mistake. And surely not an accident. More of a special sort of unignorable compass. Believing someone is emotionless is like thinking nothing is living in a house because there aren’t any lights on. We dress up our bodies. We play dress up personalities. No matter the costume, some form of metaphysical underwear underneath. There are places inside of everyone you will never see. And you really don’t want to either. Every whisper of the heart. Each fear inside the mind. Judgment. Criticism. Thoughts we try to shake out of our heads when we have them. They have us.

We’re a pile of fickle organs.

Flighty. Transparent. Predictable. Emotional. Especially the men. The patriarchy is still parading around the living room sporting a pair of crotch stained tighty whities. Barely covering what no one wants to see. I’ve been there. I live there. All good writing is a confession. You see your strength. We see your self-esteem. Our society in entirety has issues with self-esteem. We were never educated in appropriate emotional vocabulary.

No one ever told you your feelings are a special sort of compass.

But a compass is like the two year old infant of navigational devices. Flighty. Divisive. Devicive. Defiant. Just because that fickle little heart of yours declares north does not mean mountains and oceans don’t stand in your path.

You will eventually have to go out of your way to continue your way.
You’re going to have to compromise with your own self a little bit every day.

And learn. That to listen.
Is different than to obey.

The human heart is a fickle thing.
It was never meant to show right or wrong.
Mostly.
It just points north.