Hearts. The symbol for love. When I think of hearts, I think of a deep red bloody muscle with ventricles and chambers and gooey connectors and a few wavy tentacle-like suctioners and constant pumping pressure with the occasional squirting sound that would take place when I’m flying through it in my miniature magic school bus. Already I feel warm and tingly.
I suppose the heart is the perfect symbol for love because it pumps the blood to our lips and “special places” when we feel that “special feeling.” It provides us with the very basic ingredients to concoct the perfect mélange of human emotion while at the same time reminding us to live every minute like it’s the last ... beating it into us day after day.
I also reckon the heart is the symbol for love because that’s where we feel the tension and unmistakable aching the most in the context of sending and receiving emotions.
I guess that the upper ribcage would be just as suitable a place to stash your love, but I think it would seep through the intercostal muscles and sneak its way between the bones too easily. Because human feelings can be very fickle, I would imagine the spleen or the esophogus might try to coax the love away, and I fear the love would go ... because love has no say as to where it’s called.
Also, I think because the heart is constantly in motion, it reflects a poetic idea that love is a never-ending flow that needs no reminder ... no push from the sender. It’s automatic.
But maybe the heart has no ties to love at all.
I think from now on I will concentrate my love in my gallbladder, because it doesn’t get enough attention, and I think bile is totally underrated. Plus, I like saying “gallbladder.”
Gallbladder.
