When I was a young boy, I did not have leash on my feelings. My heart, like they say in novels was an organ of fire.
I was so much in love with a girl that I wanted to see the whole world with her, that was my idea of romance, seeing the caves and caverns of a bucolic Crete, never accounting to the fact that she didn’t want to see so much of the world on the first place. Not with me, never with me.
It was like those passions of unrequited love, you know, the kind mentioned in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, except you get no points for being ‘ugly and sad.’
So I decided to put her in my heart, and travelled the entire world hoping she would see them.
If I put her in my heart, she would peek through my ribcage and see the world every time I ripped off my shirt, for say in the glacial moonshine of northern Norway, or beneath the midday sun of oasis-lined Sahara.
A very romantic logic.
That was my idea of obsessive-romance, you know, poor me.
Years later my grandson did the same for someone else’s grandson, except that he was ‘whatsapping’ every sunset over the Danube, or every moonshine over the Taj Mahal , thus cosseting a technologically advanced obsessive-romance of their time, a more practical one, with more shirt ripping.