Anyone who's still-beating heart has been blind-sightedly ripped from their chest cavity by an other of significance knows the overwhelming gravitas and ache in the space that follows. Along with the grappling to understand this new found tabula rasa of reality in the midst of the tangle of memories. Where is the person I fell in love with? What about the life we had planned? The dreams in which 'we' were an integral part?
It was a dream of sweet love
Hours of happiness and loving
It was the poem of yesterday
- Poema, by Francisco Canaro
Disbelief enters this space, trying to comprehend that life has become so uncertain. Is this a lie, a bad dream or some sick joke?
When the re-galling, yearning riddle of 'where is my love?' yields nothing but the obvious empty cut-out of where they once were - and the head and heart are still dumbfounded by all of these prevalent facts - nothing remains but the lingering grief and disorientation as the eviscerated body waits to believe the present memo made of fragments of the love it once knew that is not now-fleshy-tangible. The imagination takes to this space, with fervor.
At night when I go to bed
I can't close the door
because by leaving it open
I make believe that you're coming back.
- Mi Noche Triste
The love that nested in the heart, took root in dreams of the future, and that seems to have undergone a disappearing trick only to never return, creates a gaping void, an echoing chamber that rakes ones insides and leaves a dead weight in the vicinity of the heart. The horrible pain that follows - and that nothing can seem to eclipse into oblivion - can become a vacuum that can suck a broken heart into isolation. Unless, one moves through the body-memory one step at a time.
The cure for the shattered heart is (of course) the Argentine Tango.