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Cliches and Mistakes Fog, Blind

December 14, 2011
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I folded it up inside, dusty valves and all. My heart.

Still pulsating, I poured out the blood, emptied out my arteries of its prickly, noisy current. It was pumping too much blood to my brain, which grew warm in a familiar way.

The warning was whispered, not roared.

Knowing better and doing better are not the same. One is good for giving advice, the second is reserved for people like that guy who jumped in front of an oncoming train to save a stranger. He won an award. (Because he did not die while saving a man’s life.) He said it was his destiny to jump, save, be a hero. He said he would do it again. In a heartbeat, he said. Even if it meant leaving his two daughters (who were 5 and 7 years of age) alone in the world with a step-mom who did not love them.

I heard it on the radio.

It made me weep. Not because it was sad, but because stories about heroism and courage make me weep. Every time. I also cry when I hear about families meeting each other after years of being apart.

In life, with some measure of appropriate remorse that ensures that I may not be a sociopath (maybe), I become angry when I see other people cry.

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