Some Things Are Beyond Control


Flower

Some things are beyond control. Heart is one of them.

“You can’t plan on the heart.”

The verse was from a poem I knew from a lyric that happened to be one of my favorite songs now. It is actually a sad song, yet sweet and hopeful. It gets me so blue every time I listen to it (which of course due to some similarities to my reality). Isn’t it wonderful how our reality matches so well to others?

“You can’t plan on the heart,” he said.

Oh, I feel like he’s mocking me! Among other things, I surely know very well that heart is one thing I can’t plan. His saying is like a slap on my face—waking me up. If only I could plan on my heart—to control my very own heart—perhaps life would be easier. Perhaps, how would I know? But you should know what I mean.

You fall for someone who is so different from you, with some traits you normally can’t tolerate. You don’t exactly know why or how you want to be with this person all the time. Just to talk, to walk, to laugh, to dance, to get lazy, to eat, to have a drink, to watch movie, to sing, to travel, to cook, to shop, to play, to sleep with… despite all annoying habits. You’re simply drawn and trapped and get addicted.

It sucks when we’re losing control, doesn’t it? It sucks even more when things get complicated and we can’t get out. Or we don’t want to get out cause the heart says so. And then, voila, there is suddenly this almost-perfect-person comes by with all things you always wish for. A person who is available and sweet and thoughtful and funny and settled and humble and want you, yet your heart says no.

Damn no, you can’t plan on the heart, you can’t control it. Consequently, many times you have to swallow the bitterness of not being with the person you really want to be with.

—–

My Heart
By Frank O’Hara

I’m not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don’t prefer one “strain” to another.
I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says “That’s
not like Frank!”, all to the good! I
don’t wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart–
you can’t plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.

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