I wish I could be a thousand eyes to read the stories of your heart, and without talking about love, get lost in the arteries irrigating your heart. Yes, those that are forgotten and only the cardiologist remembers. Yeah that one, the widow maker, the anterior descending artery, the one that will wake us up or send us to sleep to Neverland.

But I’m not cardiologist (I wish I would). Nor I am a million men (the world did not wish me to). And I will resist the temptation of falling for your stories and your writing and hope to be that one, The Reader. The Reader who will commune with The Writer who resides in a distant land beyond time.

The Writer who like a cardiac stent holds the artery open, for dear life, so the heart of the world does not die.
***
I’m not going to tell you what you already know. That Medium is social media on steroids and we are here to help the CEO and the CFO to pay for those NetJet rides. I mean, who can blame them? Anyone who has flown economy knows the temptation of the allure and desire of having the jet just for ourselves.

Who can blame them? Houses and children are expensive. And to ignore The Writer…? Well, who can blame them, they probably didn’t read Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet and they don’t know the Spirit of The Earth will not rest until each one of us has been paid for our labor. Yes, including the poet and the dancer.

Why discuss that we could barely be itinerant poets hopping to sell our words from the back of a van. Dreaming for a mermaid to pay us with a kiss?

Love your words.
Pablo