Thimble

There's a needle in my chest, which points to my heart. Every time it beats, it approaches the the tip of the needle, just avoiding it each time by the slimmest of margins. I imagine the cartoonish "POP" sound it will make on the day my luck runs out. It makes me feel les anxious each time my ventricles open and close? I don't know, it's hard to tell.

Sometimes I wonder what will happen when the wall of my heart reaches the event horizon. Will my heart fly around the inside of my chest in keeping with the cartoon theme, releasing its lifetime of blood? Maybe something else will come out? An ichor which has been building over a lifetime, pushing at the walls of my heart since my life began perhaps? Maybe it will be emotions tangible. Feelings made manifest will fill me until I burst. A pinata of joy, hope, despair, longing and love. I don't know, it's hard to tell.

What does it matter? That I have a heart? That I have a needle? Neither has served me well as I slip through the cracks of this world. Then again I suppose it's better than nothing. Or maybe not. Every time I push through one layer there's another waiting for me. Every day is a day where expectations are adjusted. There must, of course, be a moment where all the layers are gone and I can finally rest right? I don't know, it's hard to tell.