It would be easier, I decide, to live without this confounded nuisance in my chest—to be free of the aches, the twinges; to mold my life based on will and logic, not capability.
It would be easier, I know, to live without this weighty burden behind my ribs—to breathe without pinching; to move easily, gracefully; to have nothing to lug inside myself like a ball and chain.
It would be easier, I cry, to live without this terrifying vulnerability just below my collarbone, where heart meets lungs meets soul—to know what to expect before the moment comes, to deal skillfully and smoothly with the curveballs and the roadblocks.
It would be easier—much easier—to sing without knowledge of the hanging shadows, to dance without fear of the crowd, to love without foreboding of the agony.
It would be easier, I decide, to live without feeling or fearing the metal-hard ache of my heart, pressing against my ribcage with agonizing insistence. It would be easier to live without the leaps of hope, the breath-catching flights of wonder, the feather-fluttering empty sky after hope has been shot to earth once more.
It would be easier, I know, to live without loving, hoping, feeling. It would be easier to live without a heart.
But, I wonder, in the end, would it be right? And would it after all be bearable?
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