You don’t make it easy on yourself, do you? Trying Open-heart Surgery to get to the truth, trying to expose the sinews of veracity and the chambers of truthfulness, as if some kind of operation could provide you with the answers to all the questions you have been asking over the years, the big questions, like – If there is a God, what has been up to these last years and decades (just to keep to the last 100 years), and why do good thing happen to bad people, and the other way round.
Later post-operatively, “I love my life” you scrawl, the last thought brought to a shuddering, heat-stopping halt, flat line, sending the emergency team running for the defibrillator pads, and looking for the big needle to put straight into the heart, adrenalin, The truth drug to kick you back into life.
“Where’s my heart?” you ask and there is the sense of people searching round in a dark cellar or locker room down below, rummaging about, looking for something old and long discarded like a childhood dream, an old favourite.
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