It was an old John Wayne movie at CNN he caught while preparing his breakfast that set him to thinking tough hombres don’t care about girls anyway & they ride into the sunset alone. Maybe there’s something to the fact that patriarchy has been diluted by so much mush about parity, subjectivity, politics of the body & all that. Rather, desire he realizes floats beyond the protagonists in all narratives, & eventually love is not really possible in all post-modern dalliances. Having seen that, he remembers a heaviness of the head whenever he pontifies too much or broods over his daily misfortunes, the bottom line of which he surmises, is his heart that keeps beating like Poe’s tell-tale counterpart. At any rate he argues, that if it doesn’t function at all, no one can reach him, & consequently burden him with some emotional baggage. He’ll be free from the annoying malaise of pity, compassion, loathing or whatever; he can live without suffering the daily visitation of humanist sentiments. So he has decided to pull his symbolic heart out of his psyche, burying it in a deep pit of his unnecessary nightmares.
It seems to work. He now views her like anything, a beauty so picayune when once she gave him seizures of the heart like death-grips.
The trouble is, the dead sometimes rise up from the grave.