Heart Ailments

Yes, the heart, of course, is not the third egg, as Márquez mentioned in one of his works. It is well known by those of us who have already gone through these ups and downs of destiny that it is a tremendous son of a bitch. If not, how else could one explain so much sappiness and foolishly spilled honey in exchange for a day of peace in times of war?

If we have already defined the heart as the son of a bad and damned mother, let's not talk about the discredited and overused marriage. It is worth mentioning that it comes from a different breed of sons of bitches, with the added bonus of its enormous dependence on the environment, namely: society, friends, children, etc. Neither the heart nor marriage are so bad, but both play the tremendous role of scaring or making love feel too secure.

Yes, that love we didn't even name when it blossomed at its thresholds. Be careful, when we start calling it love in all its forms, I love you, I adore you, I miss you, babe, baby, and one hundred thirty-four other foolish things, that's when we want to convince ourselves that things are still as good as they were at the beginning.

The nature of the mishaps of the heart and the couple, by belonging to the instances of madness, is best not to try to understand. Much less to look for a culprit, because in these stories of two, the culprits are two, for the simple reason that there are no more.

Advise them? Only if I were crazy; this is yours and it is you who, each one, on their own, are loved and I will always wish you the infinitely best.

I can't help but lament what is happening to you. But I tell you, if you want to talk, you can count on me; if you want to celebrate, I have wine as always; if you want to cry, we cry together, that's what friends are for; if not, what the hell for?

• Fragment from the book: "Prohibited Letters"
• Author: Adrian Thomas