You always hear about these people that build walls up around their hearts when they are hurt, or left, or rejected. And everyone says, “Oh, what a horrible way to live! You close yourself off to the wonders and joys that true love can bring!” and yeah, yeah, I get that.

But I’m also, sorta, kinda starting to envy those people. The people with the Heart Walls. I’m starting to wonder if you people have it pretty good.

Is that weird? It’s just that…it must be nice. It must be nice to just write the whole thing off, like, “Know what? Eff this sh*t. Closing up shop! No one comes in!” Deep down you know it’s not good for anyone, but…just for a while, I’d love to feel the RELIEF that must come from completely shutting yourself off so as not to get hurt. Yeah, the force-field of your Heart Wall also deflects all that ooey-gooey lovelight that someone might shine your way, but, you know — love is so short, forgetting is so long. (I didn’t make that up. That was totally Neruda. The last half. Obvie Neruda wouldn’t say “ooey-gooey lovelight.” Or perhaps he did; it just got lost in translation.)

But if this blog tells you anything, it’s that you’ll never seek out my heart only to find a wall. No, pretty sure my heart has a landing strip on it, a little dude guiding your way with those neon-orange light sticks. Or maybe there is a barrier around there, but it’s protected by a chubby, bumbling security guard who’s always falling asleep with donut crumbs on his face and coffee stains on his uniform. This heart’s always on a silver platter.  I’ll ice it like a goddamn cupcake if that’s how you want it.

Enough metaphor for you? Good.

Obviously I’m talking about dudes, here, but really I become enamored with just about anything so damn easily, and it’s exhausting. I’m not trying to get namby-pamby, look-at-me-I’m-a-tortured-artist on you, but that lack of a filter is precisely what drives me to write halfway-decently. If I didn’t let everything in, and experience all the ugly, would I be able to see the beauty in the oft-overlooked slices of life that I find so delicious? Would I get as excited about shooting the broken windows of an abandoned state hospital?

I have it in my head that I wouldn’t. I’m convinced that I would become boring and uncreative.

That’s probably my problem.