There is a beautiful, dangerous place in my mind that smells of ripe plums. Imagine a dirt road crossing green fields, an untouched spot of land lined by tall willow trees to its West and the unknown to its East. In this spot of the mind, it is always a summer day, and always at the brink of sunset. That mystical time of the day that carries the scent of a hot and humid summer night, dampened by lust. Halfway along this road, there is a big plum tree. And if you stand under it and listen very carefully, among the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, you'll hear a faint rhythm of hearts beating.
I'm sure that this dirt road leads to a place of unparalleled beauty but unfortunately I couldn't possibly describe it to you, as I have never walked past the tree myself. I've always walked up to it, stood under its thick shade for a few seconds, only to turn my back to it and hastily walk away, often run. Run as if something dark behind me is out to snatch me. I guess that, even before the day I figured out why, I'd always felt uneasy in this spot of eerie beauty. Because a few moments under the plum tree arouse feelings that can't easily be contained, certainly not by people with weak hearts. Because the breeze in this spot of the mind always carries in the air whispers of promises, promises, promises – whispers that lick your ear and leave it moist, promising freedom and happiness in a life of eternal lusty summer nights.
I always knew there was something wrong, but it took me too long to see. And then, one day, whilst walking through my mind fields, the sweet smell drew me to the plum tree again. And as I heard the breeze growl its promises, and felt my heart become restless, I looked up for the very first time. And what I saw made a cold and slippery fear slide down my back and tie itself around my ankles. These purple-red plums on the branches were not really plums at all, they were battered, bruised hearts beating faintly in the silence. And what I was standing on was not ripe fruit, it was smashed rotting hearts.
These are the hearts of people who carry fibrous scars, the emotional cripples. People who, once upon a time, held their hearts back with ropes braided from fibers of fear and mistrust. A sad attempt at protecting them because, with every beat, the ropes would cut deeper into them, causing these poor hearts to bend in pain, like slaves forced to march to their deaths with their ankles tied together and their spirits broken. These enslaved hearts grew restless by the second, craving for the freedom that was snatched from them, and unable to contemplate nothing but plans of escape.
And then a day comes when these people, like myself, are drawn again to the dirt road, walking towards eternal summer lust and running away from heartache. And some of them stand still and alone here, in this dangerous spot of the mind, for a little too long. Long enough that their hearts make a bid for freedom, finally breaking free from their ropes and their bony cages.
Only, they don’t fly off into the big blue sky as you might think. Instead, they perch on the branches of this tree, like institutionalized old men. Like premature pensioners struggling to breathe in the summer heat, they gather together in the shade and talk about the war and about love, the war and love, war and the love, all beating at the same hypotonic tempo, their eyes fixed towards the past but never staring it in the eye. It is here that they talk about war and love, war, love, love, war, war, love, until the details are forgotten, and war and love become one and the same. And then one day, they realize that they have nothing to fight for anymore and no one to hold on to anymore. And as simple as that, they beat a last youthful beat, fall off their branch like ripe fruits, and get smashed open on the dirt road. It is the sweet smell of these ripe and rotting hearts that drives people to this dangerous spot of the mind.
I am here talking to you with my heart scarred, but still in my chest. So I guess you can consider me one of the lucky ones who figured it out: we are only emotional cripples when we use freedom as a crutch. I've been under that tree a time too many, so I recognize the sweet smell of freedom, and I wouldn't dream of taking that away from anyone. But one day I might meet you halfway there; and we might make dirty love by the side of the road. And then stand up and, for the first time, walk past it instead of walk away.
