Thursday, November 27, 2008

Gravel.

A fairly decent swedish author wrote something I found pretty interesting in his blog the other day. "Everyone carries their hearts in their hands", meaning we're all losers trying to make the best of what we've got, trying to make sense of what little we understand. At first I thought it was kind of true in the way that I don't want to admit, and then my literal self kicked in and pictured this:

A man stumbles onto his porch, one late winter evening. He had a few beers with his co-workers, he's sort of tipsy but not drunk. He is however cold and in a desperate need to pee, and wants little more than to get indoors to do so. So he gets off the bus, balancing his heart in his hands, and his briefcase under his right arm, walks up to his house and gets onto the porch. He tries to remember which pocket he put his keys in. He curses under his breath, moves the briefcase and his heart back and forth, trying to keep them both from falling to the ground. The briefcase was expensive, he doesn't want to get it dirty. And the heart, well. It goes without saying, you don't want THAT to get lost in the snow. He finds the keys. His cold fingers slip when he tries to put the right one in the keyhole, and it falls out of his hand.
His cursing gets louder. He really needs to take a massive piss now. He can feel his bladder moaning in agony. He crouches, loses his balance and dips one knee in the snow. His hand instinctivly goes to the ground to keep him from falling over. Made it. His knee is cold and wet but his briefcase is still fine, which is the important thing. But.. where's the heart again? Fuck. Fuck! He drops the briefcase, no longer concerned with stains on the leather or the important papers inside. Without a heart it's not like he's going to make it to the morning meeting the next day anyway. He plows through the snow with his hands, trying to be methodical in his search while the panic rises inside him. He just hopes his cold fingers will recognize the texture of the heart and rescue it before his clumsy feet find it first.
Something's beating faintly in the moonlight, over by the flower pot. Is it.. yes! It's his heart! He carefully picks it off the ground, tries to brush the snow off with his stone cold hands. He drops to his knees, barely feeling the wetness of his ruined pants on his skin anymore. Clutching his heart as hard as he dares to with his left hand he's randomly searching the ground for his keys with the other. Found them! A twig somehow got tangled up in the keychain. He uses the worst word he can come up with (grease cunt? fish balls? homosexual student counsellor? no, wait, Hulk mangina!) trying to shake the twig out. He resorts to using his teeth, feeling his last shred of dignity go out the window. Somehow he manages to get up and get the right key into the keyhole. Finally. All he wants now is to pee, get his wet pants off and wash his dirty heart off in the sink. He just hopes there's no gravel stuck on it. He absolutely hates when there's gravel stuck on it.

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