heartbook.

My heart.

Is a vessel, is a muscle.  Is a villain, is a saint.

It works like any other, pumping blood, maintaining life.

But my heart, is also a treasure chest.  A storage unit for memories.  For love, for pain.  A scrapbook of my life, tattered and torn with a beat up binding.

Each day I flip through its pages, recalling, remembering, reminiscing. Those I hurt, those who hurt me.  Those I loved, and loved me in return.  Those I can't live without, and those I wish I had.

Flooded with emotion, and yet feeling nothing at all, I turn each page, each memory, until I reach the end.

"To be continued".

"A work in progress".

And here we are.  Today.  The present love, the present pain.  The present.  Sometimes a gift you wish you could re-gift.  The kind of gift you want to peek at, like the days leading up to Christmas, when you just can't resist but to turn each one over in your hands, and search every closet and under-the-bed-space for the ones not yet wrapped.  How nice it would be to have each moment of love and pain and in-between mapped out in a colourful book... with glossy, easy to turn pages, and graphic representations.  A book of our lives.

A book of our hearts.