To whom ought I submit?
To a heart that yearns for the call of the mountains. To a heart that beat wildly at the first mention of the life beyond the mundane. To a heart that was poised to take the greatest leap of faith.
Or to filial affliction. To voices of deep concern. To faces worn by distress. Doubtful ifs and buts are already snuffing out the dying embers of joy.
My heart weakens and crumbles in submission to the latter. I relentlessly dig the grave – to put my feeble heart to rest. After several enduring hours the pit is still not deep enough. I squeeze my heart, heartlessly folding in its flapping wings. I stuff it into the pit and hurriedly start shovelling the mud over my wailing heart.
Alas, it won’t stay.