This mind of mine torments me, for what it finds to be of importance, my heart wants to forget. The heart longs to be set free, but it is weighed down by images that present themselves with no empathy, sounds that echo continuously, smells that present the images once more. Bombarded with a past that the heart longs to forget, for the heart cannot see, hear or smell. Nor can it touch, yet it can be touched. It does not store the past, but can only do so with the help of the tortuous mind.
Imagine a heart on its own. How free it would be, if it could be in the moment; if it could love and forget all the love it has lost? To have the memory of a goldfish in a tank. Everything would be something to explore once again. What do our experiences really teach us when they differ every time they occur, when the core of who we are remains the same? We learn to carry the emotional baggage but seldom really change ourselves. Yes the mind loves to play mind games and as it is masochistic, it is its own number one victim, and the heart, its second.