THIS IS MY HEART This is my heart. It is a good heart. Weaves a membrane of mist and fire. When we speak love in the flower world My heart is close enough to sing to you in a language too clumsy for human words. This is my head. It is a good head. Whirs inside with a swarm of worries. What is the source of this mystery? Why can’t I see it right here, right now, as real as these hands hammering the world together?

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Clov: Why this farce, day after day?
Hamm: Routine. One never knows. [Pause.] Last night I saw inside my breast. There was a big sore.
Clov: Pah! You saw your heart.
Hamm: No, it was living. [Pause. Anguished.] Clov!
Clov: Yes.
Hamm: What's happening?
Clov: Something is taking its course. [Pause.]
Hamm: Clov!
Clov: [impatiently] What is it?
Hamm: We're not beginning to ... to ... mean something?
Clov: Mean something! You and I, mean something! [Brief laugh.] Ah that's a good one!
Hamm: I wonder. [Pause.]

If it's still in your mind, it is still in your heart.

I'm searching a heart
inside me--
a heart
that's ebullient by swallowing the entire pain of the creation, a heart jubilant by accepting the entire tears of the world, a heart aglow by merging
the entire dark within itself
a heart that's smooth, effervescent and clean.

I — my heart — a gaping heart, enthroned in a radiance of blood. It is mine, it is ours. The heart — that wound which we have. I have compassion on myself.

I went inside my heart
to see how it was.
Something there makes me hear
the whole world weeping.

if you want to know me, look inside your heart.

At that stage my heart ruled my head".

When someone goes to the doctor and says, "I hear a voice in my head," he or she will most likely be sent to a psychiatrist. The fact is that, in a very similar way, virtually everyone hears a voice, or several voices, in their head all the time: the involuntary thought processes that you don't realize you have the power to stop. Continuous monologues or dialogues. You have probably come across "mad" people in the street incessantly talking or muttering to themselves. Well, that's not much different from what you and all other "normal" people do, except that you don't do it out loud. The voice comments, speculates, judges, compares, complains, likes, dislikes, and so on. The voice isn't necessarily relevant to the situation you find yourself in at the time; it may be reviving the recent or distant past or rehearsing or imagining possible future situations. Here it often imagines things going wrong and negative outcomes; this is called worry. p. 16

All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.

Passionate love relentlessly twists a chord
under my heart and spreads deep mist on my eyes,
stealing the unguarded brains from my head.

his vision clouded, as if his heart were beating right in the middle of his forehead.

I had a heavy heart and an ugly head, a kind of impostume in my head, which I was very desirous to be unladen of.