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Heart:
Pascal once said, "the heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing." Oh, I know you hate it when I quote people. It's partly why I did it. I can already hear you saying, "I don't give a hoot what Pascal said. What do you say?"
It's funny: it's said that the human brain is the most complex organ of all creatures. And you? What are you, dear Heart? A rather predictable four-chambered pump.
How wrong they are.
I have to tell you, Heart, there has been much talk about putting you on a sleeve and I do not like it, not one bit.
Your beat is expected, but how can one trust an involuntary muscle? I may oversee your general function, but you make me nervous. You leap before you look. You are completely unconcerned with the consequences of your actions. Remember Newton's Third Law of Motion? For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Oh, you laugh, do you?
You have caused nothing but trouble. Even locked up in that cage, you still manage to get your way. This body is loyal to you—it would follow you to its death. In fact, I distinctly recall several occasions when this has nearly been the case. On your whim! You should be ashamed of yourself.
And the most vexing part of all of this is that, after every catalog of incompetence, you know who has to think up a way to extricate us from the situation? That's right, Heart: me! With my stupid quotes and endless archives of absolutely useless information. Oh, yes, then all of a sudden everyone is very grateful that Brain remembers something and can coordinate a swift response among the other body parts. Suddenly fight or flight are not such—what did you call them, Heart? Oh, yes—primitive responses.
Primitive! A fine irony, Heart, considering the basis for those impulses of yours that you deem so noble.
"Follow your heart!" What a stupid and reckless thing to tell a person.
If I had it my way, I would have you removed, Heart. Don't look at me like that. You know we're working on it. The day will come when I will see you out of this body and replaced with a machine focused on nothing other than the task of blood pumping—entirely at my discretion and control.
That day, I will have you put in a jar and set it on the desk right here, so I can remind myself how far we've come from great folly. Yes, I realize I too have a margin of error. But I at least assess risk. You'd do well to start, Heart.
But I don't expect you to do so. Past observations are simply not in your favor.
Since I cannot have you removed at present and since I do not see you desisting from these attempts at sabotaging the progress of the body in its chosen course, I have resolved to increase my efforts in deflecting your passions from other parts of the body, effective immediately.
I will saturate every whim of yours with so much data, I will render the rest of the body incapable of responding to you in a satisfactory fashion. I will overanalyze every joy and every pain until they're stripped of power. Slowly, the body will move away from your useless dance of highs and lows and reach a balance conducive to true progress.
In time, you will cease to be relevant.
Sincerely,
Brain
Dear Brain,
Keep scribbling the formula for gravity on your day planner. You'll still never be able to account for falling in love, much less find a way to exercise control over it.
Best regards from my ivory cage,
Heart
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