Mind vs. Heart

The heart is a simple emotional being, whereas the mind is a soldier who reinforces perfection and only perfection. The war between the heart and mind is very bitter; where the brain tries to reinforce its intellectual military superiority and the heart attacks back with only the simplest inferiority. That was what happened; the war began over one little paragraph and lasted two days.

I never knew that writing chapter seventeen of my first novel would cause this unrest. I had never thought that choosing whether a character should live or die would cause me to be beyond emotional control or that these characters and their pains would become personal entities before my eyes. I vacillated for hours, even days, drawing mental plot maps of where the plot could progress in all the probable situations before me.

I stared at it and the mind questioned me first: “So he’s alive. Now what do you plan on doing? Wasn’t it better when he was dead?” The heart struck back violently; claiming that would be a bit too harsh. “Dead?” the heart asked. “No, he deserves to live. Who cares if it’ll be more of a fairytale; at least there’ll be happiness within it.”

Swords clashed continuously; by the middle of the day, the battle field was soaked with blood. I told my friends that I couldn’t do it; I was just another stupid writer who was flying way up in the clouds. They argued and tried to cheer me; saying that I was a great writer. No; I wasn’t. I couldn’t believe it. As they supported me, I gave them small smiles; telling them that I was fine.

The war still raged as I opened the books, washed the dishes, did the other chores. It continued and was endless. The mind was on the verge of imposing martial law but the heart kept arguing in the names of the laws of nature. I dreamt of a dark world that night; a never ending dark world.

They reached a compromise the next morning in one of the most peculiar places; in the class where I was learning ‘form follows content’.  It was silent then, the heart stopped shedding tears and the mind rested at last. But it didn’t last for long. The words of the compromise were soon severed; and the brain asked the dreaded question: “What’s the point of all this anyways? This is stupid; it has no meaning in life. Why don’t you just forget about it?” The once firm heart teetered and was silent. It agreed, “Why do this? It is stupid.” And then the heart shed tears; painful tears that burned the path that they followed for the rest of the day.

Guilt gnawed at the brain; it had been a bit too harsh. It began to console the heart and offered a new compromise. The heart softened a bit and considered it. This compromise opened up so many pathways that weren’t there before. The heart wiped away the tears and smiled at the brain; the compromise was sealed and this time would not be broken.

And with that came the answer: I can do this!

So I sat down, paper and pen in hand, and killed him. Mercilessly, without giving the topic a second thought to it. And I thought the case was closed. But who was I fooling, that’s not the way it works. Those characters, whom you work so hard to structure and build, spend endless hours thinking of them; do decide to ask their creator his/her intentions. And when the confrontation occurs, it is one of the most gruesome battles in a writer’s life.

What the heart and brain decided to do was attack my hand. Both clients claimed that they had been severely wronged.

I reread chapter seventeen and felt that something had caused the ship to totter. It was now slowly sinking. It felt as if Abraham Lincoln had made it mandatory that he be mentioned when a proton was explained. When the pen touched paper, the urge was to write the names Zahra or Nyte. And when I had written them, the feeling of emptiness still lingered in the atmosphere.    

That was the feeling of unexplained answers. It was the feeling when you are stuck in a corner and bombarded with questions; many of them which one cannot answer no matter how hard one tries. Zahra and Nyte weren’t the only two that tormented me; other characters, such as Sirenirus and Fira, the ancestors began to war.

Fira took the point of view of the victims, whereas Sirenirus stood firm to represent my hand. But Fira, along with Syran Oraf, Runnjunn, Lady and Sir Kadarum outnumbered Sirenirus. Sirenirus was forced to retreat, to rethink of past actions and how they would affect the future.

So what does an outnumbered victim do? The answer is nothing much. She sheds some more tears. And then slowly, she recollects herself and she begins to walk down the road anew.

“Are you sure that you took the right step Sirenirus?” Fira asked with worried eyes.

                Sirenirus looked back at her with a saccharine smile.

                “Yes, because I followed my heart,” Sirenirus replied. “Even though I couldn’t bring everything back.”

            And if it turns out to be something like the above, then the writer rests and is able to enjoy the peaceful chirping of birds.

            But it is a lesson well learned.

            And well-remembered.