disambiguate

I keep imagining a knife through two bars of my rib-cage scooping my heart out, just imagine that feeling. Just imagine holding your real heart in your hands, nerves and all, still pumping with the same strength, the raw thick honesty and realness of blood making its way down in rivers, tracing your wrists, coursing down your forearms. Imagine that in the midst of all this goddamn uninspiring drudgery, most of all. Imagine the lightness below your left breast between your lungs as you hold the centre of your being, of your emotional self at least, out there an arm’s length away, still yours but safely outside you, securely in your grasp, imagine knowing the reality of your heart like that. This heart that took everything. This heart that took everything and still has more to give, still promising more to give with every next beat. I have more, I have more, wait up! I have oceans.

Wouldn’t that be the realest thing, beyond anything, beyond envy, beyond lust, beyond death, and all yours on its own. Wouldn’t that just be the most fucking real experience of your entire life.