It goes like this,
Chum, chum and a single pow.
A double life and a single blow
Like a train pulling out of the station, it kicks to life and then settles to one long lifeless rhythm.
Across the country carried on those first few tries that set it off.
Then, it just flows away and through like a stream down a gentle slope
Oblivious of the gravity that holds its hand but keen enough to realize the insignificance of its own force in the carving of its destiny.
But the certainty that lies in its destination glows like a candle light at the end of a collapsing tunnel.
His heart lived not very much unlike the stream, or the train. He trusted those first two jumps of life that set him in motion and flowed through the rest of his existence like a passenger, sleeping in the morning rain.
He trusted the driver that was his fate and the path that the universe charted for him. He lived through his life like an image in the mirror, merely a reflection of the truth, significant in his insignificance.
Because he could not steer his heart. A heart that went quiet as soon as it left its station but rallied up in viciousness when something stood in its way. A heart that refused to hear the silent pleas of its possessor to change its course. It was an untameable heart and he had learnt his lessons long ago, not to go to war with it.
When he was internally bleeding out on the battlefield in the middle of his empty living room floor, grief had stood over him and kicked him in the ribs just to make sure that he was dead already, or dying slowly with no chance of recovery. He cursed his rebellious, resilient mind with his last breath and prepared for eternity or damnation. Whichever the gods saw fit to be cast upon him.
But as he closed his eyes in defeat, he felt his heart drag him to the infirmary and patch his wounds together again. In his sub – conscious state, he felt the enemy nurse him back to health with the patience of the old nurses. When he opened his eyes, it was beside his bedside holding his hand.
“Why?” He asked.
“Because I want to live,” came the silent reply.
And still, in the silence and in that stench of healing scars, it asked.
“Have you learnt?”
All he could do was shake his hanging head.
In the end, he will be led into the ocean of collected lives and pour in with all other kindred heart vessels from all over the earth. The ocean of everything and nothing, of hope and disappointment; a solid mess made up of liquid dreams. Where their source waters matters not but the essence that they form together, everything.