The Man with a Heart Made Out of Paper

Ripped through like leaves and trees in the eye of the storm, there is very little to sustain it. You draw it nicely and make it colourful with strong shades of red, you can even feel it pumping. But one blow cannot help you sustain it. What is with mankind and their need to visualise the source of emotions? Do we need to see what we feel, or just see what we feel at first? You hear the paper rustling, trying to make sense of what you could realistically draw on paper, of what you could write to make you believe what exists and what is product of fantasy. Yet, the pages flickered through will not tell you what to see and they might never summarise what you felt on that day, on that moment. If music played right now, could you wish it was on paper to bless those who listened to it? Would musicians hang their instruments to pick up the pens and pencils on the floor? My desire is not written with the alphabet inherited from father to son, nor it is something you draw or see on the walls of a gutted city. Blessing came with the word and flew over the city to warm you all with its sounds, its accentuation, its intonation; to represent that rhythm life kept close to her at all times. Tu-tum...tu-tum...is that your heart beating for one lifetime only or is that just a series of characters to be seen forever?