14 inches
If you're thinking it's penile, you're wrong.
I am no doctor, but I propose that there are 14 inches between your brain and your heart. I am rounding up and not accounting for gender, race, grotesque anomalies in neck length or the existence of giraffes. Fourteen inches is the span of a pair of adult hands joined at the thumbs, from pinky to pinky. It's just a little bit longer than a Dodger dog. And yet to me, this medically unproven length represents the incredible distance across which agreements must be made between what I know and what I feel. I stand on this battleground every day. It's what makes my chest feel like lead. It's what I know my brain is trying to resolve. The discrepancy, the 14 inches is what fills my days with puzzles.
In matters of business, we make choices based on the facts, the trends, the probability that the outcome we want is greater than the probability of us eating shit while walking down the sidewalk. In matters of the heart, of my heart specifically, I make choices based on what echoes through the very bottom of this cavernous muscle in the center of my body. I made a decision a few months ago and I am waiting for heart to agree with head. In the meantime, I send wine to liver.
Sometimes I feel silly for being indistinct with the specifics of my turmoil. But, as I try to keep this blog about my writing and my ideas, the details are of little consequence. In the end, it is the universal story of heartache. I don't even think it matters what kind, there is heartache and then there is the path to understanding and accepting it. The older we get, the "bigger" we get, the farther the distance becomes due to the multi-faceted perception we acquire through life itself. I have become the champion of overanalysis. Sometimes I wish I was a kid again with a smaller distance to have my troubles travel. When I was a kid, I'd hear "14 inches" and I'd think penile and I'd be right.
I am no doctor, but I propose that there are 14 inches between your brain and your heart. I am rounding up and not accounting for gender, race, grotesque anomalies in neck length or the existence of giraffes. Fourteen inches is the span of a pair of adult hands joined at the thumbs, from pinky to pinky. It's just a little bit longer than a Dodger dog. And yet to me, this medically unproven length represents the incredible distance across which agreements must be made between what I know and what I feel. I stand on this battleground every day. It's what makes my chest feel like lead. It's what I know my brain is trying to resolve. The discrepancy, the 14 inches is what fills my days with puzzles.
In matters of business, we make choices based on the facts, the trends, the probability that the outcome we want is greater than the probability of us eating shit while walking down the sidewalk. In matters of the heart, of my heart specifically, I make choices based on what echoes through the very bottom of this cavernous muscle in the center of my body. I made a decision a few months ago and I am waiting for heart to agree with head. In the meantime, I send wine to liver.
Sometimes I feel silly for being indistinct with the specifics of my turmoil. But, as I try to keep this blog about my writing and my ideas, the details are of little consequence. In the end, it is the universal story of heartache. I don't even think it matters what kind, there is heartache and then there is the path to understanding and accepting it. The older we get, the "bigger" we get, the farther the distance becomes due to the multi-faceted perception we acquire through life itself. I have become the champion of overanalysis. Sometimes I wish I was a kid again with a smaller distance to have my troubles travel. When I was a kid, I'd hear "14 inches" and I'd think penile and I'd be right.
posted by Katie at 5:07 PM
1 Comments:
take it all day by day with a glass of wine. you'll make it through. i'll be there on the other end -- and through it all -- to give you a big hug :)
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