fullman*

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Today I decided to stay put and hunker down. The year has just ended, and in a few days I am turning 32.

You have to admit that 2009 was a strange year: it had 3 arms, an extra face, a 13th month that had 365 days. It was as if each day is always bent on eating the next one, each week cannibalizing the entire month, scattering red entrails on the floor: typhoons, floods, immorality, backhoes, Gloria, an almost eruption.

A pause then is important. 2009 deserves a proper burial. A comma is not enough, this year demands a period, a full stop.

From where I am I can see an ant pursuing a scent. It has no other agenda, no flash flood to worry about, no relief goods to pack. No Zen profundity to its movements, just the single-mindedness of a line.

We need to treat this year as if it were a line that unravels. Last year was a border.

I stretched and my feet touched China. A physiological feat, but what for? We only need to look around us, stare at each other, to know that we carry our own Great Walls.

Last year, I urged a few friends and some kindred spirits to pluck their hearts and wear them on their sleeves. I did. There was blood trickling down my arm, but it didnt give me love. Instead, my heart was yanked away, and all that remained was a bloody scribble on the pavement: I was here.

But who cares. Take it away, the heart doesnt grow still anyway. When excited it cavorts with the throat. When cold, it clenches itself. When broken it doesnt smash, it implodes and eats itself. When lonely, it wanders. Lonelier, it logs in, uploads, and updates its status.

Quote me if Im wrong, the heart is never still.

Last year, you jumped and I didnt follow. When I finally did I was already on my own. So dont blame me if I didnt welcome the new year with a jump: Id rather begin with a full stop.

The people walking on the street suddenly stopped, their faces darkening – here a tear or a whimper, there a sigh – and then the act itself. At the sight of a familiar nape, or at the prodding of a distant scent or the notes of a song once shared, the heart is wrenched out of the one’s soul, gravity becoming its long-lost lover, shattering on busy pavements, in the middle of the city, inside an empty church, in front of a portrait, or even when one is high.

The act repeats itself, a testimony to the truth that we have more than one heart, and the best argument why we can’t spare that many.