Our hearts, or our souls, or whatever metaphysical qualification you want to use that best defines what it is that makes us human, can be divided up in an infinite number of ways.
We give a little piece of our hearts, or souls, or whatever away to something when we chose to love it.
And every time we give a little piece of our heart, or soul, or whatever away we gain a little something in return.
And when we love something, a person, a pet, a place, a little compartment is created in our hearts, or souls, or whatever, so that we can carry around these feelings,
And every time we want to, we can stop and open the door to this little internal compartment we have created in ourselves and enjoy these feelings this person, or pet, or place elicits in us.
And each compartment, regardless of how many you have, has its own unique flavor.  
None feel quite the same even if they all have the same mix of excitement, anticipation, love and caring.
(Of course there are compartments for negatives too, but those compartments don't concern us right now.)
And every time we encounter these special people, pets, or places we get to add a little nuance to our compartments.  
A new depth of understanding that you only notice over time.
And we can open these compartments even when we are just thinking about these people, pets, or places and let these positive feelings wash over us because we know, eve if it isn't right now, we will, at some point, be in the presence of these wonderful things again.
And what a comforting thought that is.
Then, one day, this thing we have given ourselves to, these people, pets or places, aren't here anymore.
And, for whatever reason, they will never be coming back
no matter how debilitating that thought is.
And now we have lost a little bit of our heart, or soul, or whatever and we will never be getting it back again.
And we go back and open our compartments and the joy we used to feel washes over us in a tidal wave of filth
because knowing these feeling we used to have makes knowing we will never have them again that much worse.
And now, where love and excitement once lived
fear and loss and regret thrive.
So we try our ****-dist to keep this door to our hearts and to our souls closed.
But, we can't help but peak in from time to time
and as a new wave of pain and anxiety greet us like the old friends they have become
we say it is pain well earned
because it beats the alternative of never giving yourself to any person, pet, or place in the first place.

I envy those who have no love in their lives.
I want to be the one who has nothing to care for, or about.
I am jealous of those who have nothing to lose beyond themselves.
They have their share of sadness, to be sure.
But, those who hold nothing dear, either by fate or choice,
cannot know the terror that comes with loving something, someone else, truly.
The overwhelming realization that this person, or thing, you love so dearly will some day be taken from you, or you from it,
is tragic on a scale that is unimaginable,
but felt all the same.
No, give me the life of the uncommitted,
of the freedom to love nothing,
with the highs always being low
making the lows seem so much higher.
Give me mediocrity of unattachment
in lieu of the purest love that defines life and shakes it to its core.
The trepidation of the later being too beautiful to handle.

Unlike so many false prophets
who sell false promises
of false happiness
that we devote our real lives in search of,
my words are clumsy and uninspired.
As I attempt to shout something beautiful or inspiring
my truth gets trapped
in incomplete thoughts,
in tangled phrases,
in broken metaphors.

Any truly great ideas I have
never see the light of day,
obscured by faulty execution.
As I see so many personable charlatans
talk of quick fixes and easy paths to enlightenment
I berate myself for my inabilities
like a baby screams simply because it has nothing else it can do.

And after every clumsy failure at getting my point across
with every missed expression,
I hang my head.
Not in shame.
Not this time.
But so I can see my pages better.
I am compelled to try and tell my story,
in spite of all of my shortcomings because
even if I can never accurately translate the thoughts in my head
to something inspiring and accessible
I am compelled to try.
In the end, I'd rather produce an ugly truth
than a beautiful lie.

There are two types of people:
those that count their lives by their successes
and those that keep time by defeat.
I am of the latter category.
Falling down, and getting bruised and bloodied is so much more memorable than sticking the landing and going about your business.
Success is easy.
It's failure that is difficult.
So as I lay awake at night,
at that point in time when you are totally alone even if someone is sleeping next to you,
I recount my failures.
I remember dropping the ball in the big game
more clearly than I remember making the game winning shot.
The sting of my first rejection is much more palpable
than the sweetness of my first embrace.
But it was in those moments of failure I tried my damnedest.
The losses, the close calls, the might-have-beens make me feel alive.
Through rejection I tested the limits of my body and soul and came to know who I am,
whoever that is.
It's not the times I came up short that shake me to my bones.
As I lay awake at night, in that time when you are totally alone, the times I never tried in the first place come to haunt me.
To count those potential victories never realized is much more daunting than adding up all the losses I have had to this point.

My goals are much different now
than they were when I was young.

When I was young I treasured money
before I realized money was a means rather than an end.

I craved fame
before I realized fame was a chore as much as an ego trip.

I wanted everyone to like me
before I realized like and respect are two different monsters.

I desired the love of many women
before I realized I have yet to adequately love one.

I coveted security
before I realized security has more to do with a mentality than earthly goods.

I needed the world to stop in mutual adoration and thank me for changing it.
Anything short of that would constitute a failure.
Then I realized the world was fine before me and will continue to be fine long after I'm gone.

Now that I am older my goals aren't as grandiose as they once were.
They are simple to the point of absurdity.
My only goal now, my son, is to live long enough for you to appreciate how much I really love you.
And that is the failure I fear the most.

My face is bland,
quite forgettable actually.
The people I pass on the street don't remember me.
If I stole their purse, or wallet they wouldn't be able to pick me out of a line-up,
But you notice me in a crowd from a mile away.

My voice is disagreeable,
it's quite nasally if I'm honest.
I can't sing and my solo's in the school play were always taken away and given to someone else.
But you let me serenade you
and tell me how soft my voice sounds
as you fall asleep

I am socially inept,
I'm quite awkward really.
I tell puny jokes that are greeted with side long glances and silence
But you always laugh and ask for another.

I'm a bad lover,
I'm quite aloof if the truth be told.
I hold my cards close to my chest and try my best to shut everyone out.
But you look into my eyes and tell me I made it easy for you to fall in love.

To everyone else I am forgettable, and awkward, and aloof.
But to you I am memorable, comfortable, and honest.
I've tried too hard to be something to everyone
when really, all I ever needed to be was everything to someone.

I wake up alone.
I eat alone.
I shower alone.
I am alone as I work
and I am alone as I sit down at night to watch other lonely people attempt to distract me from being lonely.
I am alone as the world swirls around me,
preoccupied with its own loneliness with no time to notice mine.
My loneliness leads to confusion.
Confusion makes way to self doubt
and self-doubt turns to fear.
I am alone and I am afraid.
Then I touch you
and you smile at me
and I'm not alone anymore.

I am terminal I just don’t know it yet.
In twenty years I will be diagnosed with inoperable bone cancer.
It won’t be my fault,
Nothing I could have done would have prevented my fate,
But it will **** me all the same.
Six months after my diagnosis I will take my last, labored, breath.
Doctors will talk to me with serious, professional faces about quality of life,
And having a plan.
I will make a living will,
Discussing with my family the way to deal most gracefully with the most ungraceful of acts.
When I die my wife and children will be by my side.
We will have said a thousand good-byes,
In a thousand different ways,
Acknowledging the finality of every act as they pass,
Until the last good-bye,
A kiss on my cheek,
As I drift away,
My battle fought, and lost.

I am terminal I just don’t know it yet.
In ten years I will fall victim to screeching tires and twisted metal.
It won’t be my fault,
Nothing I could have done would have prevented my fate,
But it will **** me all the same.
Six minutes after the initial impact I will take my last, labored, breath.
Doctors will talk to my family with serious, professional faces about blunt force trauma, and force equaling mass times acceleration.
I did not have a plan,
I did not make a will,
Tomorrow, tomorrow being my constant refrain.
I will not get to tell anyone good-bye,
No one will get to tell me how much they loved me,
I will never appreciate the last time I do anything,
Taking the ability to engage in each act for granted.
I get no last kiss.
My battle is fought, and lost.

I am terminal…I just don’t know it yet.