WHICH IS WHICH: HEART OR MIND?

Love has always made me naive in almost all aspects of humanity. Be it in coping with daily dilemmas up to dealing with matters so vast one can’t help but chew viand more than what he can swallow–love deprives me of my intellectual capacity.

In search of the right one is a difficult feat for an adolescent, yet also intricate to those who have surpassed adulthood with the survival laurels. It chills me down my spines, constraining me to search HER free from reluctance, that climbing mount Olympus would neither be an uphill slope, nor a voyage between Scylla and Charybdis. It would be easy as wiping my tears dry–pain would just pass by.

I had her, and I also had her, but who of them? I always have thought of this, that being torn between two lovers is not a sin that qualifies me to eternal damnation, rather a clear manifestation of how finite I am. Blame my imperfect heart.

Sanity has left me since that very day I started the search for my “one and only.” As if I was a hound in search of the moon meat, I crave for her…she who would nurture my self-proclaimed intellect, pamper my jeopardized heart, so to hasten its emotional anguish. She needs not to look like Cinderella in her glass shoes, or Snow White with her seven dwarves, she only needs to have these: understanding and candid looks (I don’t mean it actually).

But I always fail.

But who’s culpable? Who deserves the much feared sword held strong by Lady Justice? I guess it’s my mind. Had only mind interfered and gave guidance to every endeavor my heart has made, love could have been not that illogical–at least suffocating. In search of the right one could have been easy. “Wise judgment is my asset,” says the mind.

I guess it’s my heart that deserves the blame. Had heart intercepted with all of mind’s intellectual affairs–love could have been true. Cupid shoots the heart, not the meaty brain. Love makes our hearts beat, an evident signal to respond that love is genuine, not a mere fabricaton of fantasy and mysticism.

But either way, love is baffling. It’s like going on a detour where the right way is found not on the options provided, but hidden obscure somewhere else. It’s like navigating a ship without a compass–where you’d drift endlessly in the high seas, thinking no more about your destination, but the time of your death. It’s when you choose who to blame, when in fact you are the one who deserves it.

In search of the right one, which prevails: the heart which tells you to stick in a true love irrationally, or the mind, which tells you to be first witty and radical before you run in a love affair?

I guess I’ll consult a “manghuhula.” The answer could be just isolated inside that magical “bolang crystal,” far mystical than my imperfect thought.