I am one who defines themself largely by their heart. My body is nothing to look at by societal standards. I’m intelligent but not spectacularly so. I’m a regular sort who works to make rent and pay their bills. It is my heart of which I am most proud. It is usually big and warm and generous and sweetly melancholy and open and playful.

But occasionally my heart will completely shut down with no apparent cause. I can feel it shrink down to the size of a pea and lose its pulse. When this happens I am lost. When my heart disappears I realize how much I use it to guide my body; how it encourages me to make the most of it despite its many imperfections. I realize how it comforts my mind by placing a cushion around it when it judges itself. How it encourages me in my creativity. But most of all I realize how much it guides me in my relationships.

The truth is that when my heart gets to this place, I can’t access love for myself or others. I am terrifyingly indifferent. When I lose the thing that makes me feel special, I am left wondering what I have left. Knowing that this is no way to live or to be with other people I shut myself away and fake my way through work. I cancel my plans.

I generally love my solitude and the coziness that I create within it. But when I am here home becomes a tomb. My imagination dies. My desire to create vanishes. My curiosity goes missing. I go through the motions and play video games. I close the blinds because I don’t want to be reminded that there is life outside.

This is where I am trapped right now. I apologize for the self-indulgent entry. I promised myself that I would not make this a “confessional blog” but…there you have it.