A man without love is a danger. Love has a softening effect on the coarser parts of man's ugliness. Without it he is brutish, monstrously misguided. The pursuits he finds himself in are often more sordid, more ill-advised. Motivated by jealousy, guile, and self-interest, he begins to think only of himself, of what there is around him to take. Covetousness and a fast diminishing righteousness fill the hollows behind his ribs. He begins collecting things; eccentricities, neuroses, compulsions. Occupying himself with any and every distraction, he breathes deeply, greedily, and feels the space in his chest expand. But it is just swelling emptiness pressing back against itself. He is given to impurer impulses and destructive desires. The world becomes an obstacle, a hand to be cheated.
Likewise, a man who hasn't been to the gym in a week starts to feel his heart merrily swell with plaques. Lazy accolades and atrophied trophies. A lively renaissance takes place in the vaulted chambers of his plump aorta. Decorative, glazed stuccos adorn his arteries, fattening them and making them shine. Half melting scoops of ice-cream spill from his ventral heart. Chiaroscuro chunks of chorizo bob and weave through his bloodstream like butchered buoys.
This, friends, is why I must go to the gym.
I do wonder though, is it better to have a heart that's potbellied and full, or one that's thin and empty?
No comments:
Post a Comment