Heart-Shaped Backpack

Some of us, we wear our hearts strapped to our backs. I do this. When someone touches me (in the PG way), I think to myself, “I’m changed forever by loving him, so I can’t ever stop loving him or I’ll regress.” I’m oh so afraid of stagnating or falling behind. I push myself harder than I probably should. So, in keeping with this virtue, I never stop loving him. Or him. Or her. Or him. Or anyone. So my heart-shaped backpack is getting fuller and heavier and more cumbersome every day. And it’s a truly beautiful thing to have a full heart, right? There’s no way that cleaning it out every now and then, finding some sort of mediocritas between bursting and dry, could prove healthier for us, more efficient, more sustainable.

At least, that must be the sort of idiotic thing I’ve been believing so far. Yikes. No wonder I never want to get truly close to anyone. It’s either lug around this baggage or find someone who can clean out and replace it all with their own love before I’ve noticed and run away. Unluckily for all, I’m pretty damn good at this whole self-awareness thing, despite what my current revelation may imply, and very few people are capable of distracting me from myself. Sorry, but I’m just too damn fascinating and you’re usually trying too hard or not at all. I mean, it’s pretty hard to forget about the massive yoke of so many former amadors, even in the face of a prospective or two.

Of course, after reading what I’ve just written, I get a pretty heavy dose of 60mg Wake-Up-Call PM as I once again notice how absurdly self-centered and singular (and arrogant and cute and pretentious and elegant and conceited and effectual and big-headed and big-headed…) I am. So, maybe I’m trying too hard, myself. Maybe I should let them go because, really, when will I ever find myself even speaking to any of my ex-whatever’s again, let alone needing to quickly take up all my former feelings and spring into battle with them? Even on the incredibly off-chance that I see his face in person again, I’d much rather be confused for a while, to not know how to feel, to be able to forget who he was and find out who he is now. Things change. People change. Hearts should change, too. And I should quit loading myself higher and thicker and wider and deeper (and other totally inappropriate-sounding dimensions) with all this nostalgic affect and just leave my backpack behind. If I can’t fit it all in my pockets, then I wasn’t meant to have it all.