Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Ambassadors.

negotiation-table

Today I deal with a conflict between my heart and head. I am handed a piece of information, and the piece of information is like an errant rifle bullet across the borders in my body, and now it’s all been Balkanized, it’s all become tense and unstable, rolling slowly down the track to one conflagration or another.

So the diplomats meet in some neutral location. My pancreas, perhaps. A delegation from my head and a delegation from my heart sit across the round table of my endocrinology and present their cases in front of an impartial mass of white blood cells.

And Head has the rightful claim. Everybody knows this. Heart knows this better than anybody. Head has a hundred thousand clearly explicated reasons as to why this thing deserves to go in Head’s direction. Head always wins this argument. Head has been winning this argument for years.

And Heart has nothing but its determination that this time, this time, damn you all, this time Head doesn’t just win by default. Head doesn’t win just by showing up. Heart is tired of having its arguments dismissed. Heart is done being bullied by Head and Heart is willing to this time issue a call to arms.

And Head acknowledges that it is unfair. Head knows how often it dominates over Heart. Head knows that concessions will have to be made and it knows that at some point the simmer will slip to boil, and there will be no option then, at that point the war will have to be fought. It acknowledges even that when Heart decides that there will be war, that it will likely be swift and ruthless, and that it will likely decimate Head for generations to come. Head knows that unchecked aggression from Heart could lead to total annihilation, and that Heart wouldn’t care, and by the time Heart was done Head wouldn’t care either.

But, Head asks Heart, is this really the battle for that? Is this really the moment for it?

Heart falters. The ire fades, the temper levels out at zero.

They sit at the table calmly discussing a way out.

And the arbitrator, watching this play out for the umpteenth time, nods officiously and dies a little bit inside.

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This entry was posted on October 8, 2008 by in Fiction, Mental Health, Politics, Theatre, Writing.
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