I sat down near his feet at his signal
His legs were still crossed and hovering

With eyes still closed, he spoke:
“I did not hear your heart beat when you stepped in here
And I do not hear it now
Your problem is not your heart, but your mask
You wish to take out your heart
But it is your mask you should take off
But I fear that is not what you came to hear
My child, you will find what you seek
It is exactly what you want
Yet it is precisely what you don’t need
Nevertheless, carry your feet a mile from here
Where the sands and waters meet
There, close your eyes and listen
To the sound of the waves crashing
Whilst perched upon a hard surface
There you shall find your answer.”

In the middle of a small, dark room
The man sat deep in meditation
Sat would be the wrong word
For the man floated an inch above the ground
With his long, white, wavy beard the only thing in contact with the slabbed floor
His eyes were closed, and he was mumbling I know not what
I could see him; I could see him because
He radiated light from within himself
He seemed magical or perhaps phony

“Excuse me,” I said, careful about not disturbing his poise too much
“I have come seeking an answer
Joe, the handyman, referred me here
He said that you can solve anything
Well, he didn’t say that precisely
But I suppose that is what he meant
I do have a problem and I implore you to give me an answer
My heart beats
It beats hard and fast
And it hurts
There are no two ways about it
It kills me from inside every day
Even now, as I speak, it is pricking me
With the jolt of a thousand thunderbolts
I fear that I may take it no more unless something definite be done about it.”

“It is not your heart that is beating,” the man replied without opening his eyes
“Your heart is not beating at all
I did not hear it when you stepped in here
And I do not hear it now
Your problem is not your heart, but your mask
You wish to take out your heart
But it is your mask you should take off
But I fear that is not what you came to hear.”

Atop a little hill, an old dilapidated structure
Bore itself out in view
Against the blue backdrop of the summer sky
The climb was steep but brief
I paused at the entrance of the shrine
And reflected upon the craft and purses of men
Men who thought it needful
To build abodes for deities
Who had the heavens and beyond for themselves
While their sisters with their husbands and children perished all around them
The thought did not bring anger to my veins
As it had so often done before
But it did bring a recollection of the previous instance
When rage had seized me and held me captive
For a moment that seemed to last a lifetime
Nevertheless, this was not the time to reflect
Upon anything but my aggravating pain
Which hammered at my chest
And tore at my spirit
I slipped the shoes off my feet
And stepped inside the sanctum

“Hello, I’m Joe,” he said. “Welcome, welcome
Whatever is it that you’re looking for
You’re bound to find it here
I’ve got all types of screws in this world
All sizes and all colours
I’ve got nails of varying heights
And hammers that go with them
I’ve even got me a drill machine
That can penetrate through walls
Like a knife slashing butter
Or like a sword slashing veins
What is it you’re seeking? Oh, a heart, I hear?
A heart that cries very little?
And certainly feels no pain?
Oh my, oh my, I’ve got pins and bolts to fix everything
But don’t believe I have enough to fix your troubles
You’ve certainly put a bummer on me
I’m no longer the almighty Joe
Take, take my sincere apologies
And hurry, hurry towards the shrine
Where you’ll find a wise, old man
Who has plenty of time to ponder
On all that is and is not
But has very little time to shave or bath
Hasten, hasten, my friend, do not be idle
A woe like yours needs urgent attention
You better not lose a moment
Tell him all your troubles
He’s bound to give a solution
If he fails, I’m afraid
There’ll be nobody left to help you at all.”

I bowed my head and thanked him
He curved his lips in response
I failed to recognise that expression

I went to a nearby shop and asked,
“Have you a replacement for a heart?
Something that doesn’t break as often
Something that doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Nope,” she said. “I haven’t the thing I think you’re looking for
I have fine red apples here with me
Possibly the right size for your chest
But they’re no immune from disaster
All the finest care in the world will
Not stop this fruit from withering
Emitting a pungent smell
Leaving a bad taste in your mouth
Now unless you plan to greet me every week
And buy a bunch of these fine red apples from me
I believe I have not the thing you’re looking for
But I do know Joe, the handyman
And he, indeed, is a handy man
He’s got all the tools that any man has ever known
And some really useful implements
Be sure to darken his doorstep
If you wish to find a cure
For whatever disease it is that is plaguing you.”

I bowed my head and thanked her
She smiled and winked at me
I failed to understand her

It took some years before I realised
The root cause of all my pains —
Inside my ribcage
Sitting slightly behind and to the left of the sternum
From the deep crevices of an organ
The size of my fist
Wrapped in layers and layers of tissue
All the pains emerged
Like soldiers marching into a battle
With sharp swords and spears
Flinging them at my chest
Till I break