173 lines
3.7 KiB
TeX
173 lines
3.7 KiB
TeX
\herosection{The Atlas of the Human Heart}
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\dropstart{The} Cartographer was famous for her maps.
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Not the ordinary kind — \\
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she cared nothing for mountains or rivers\\
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or the tedious borders of today's kings.\\
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Her passion was the hidden geography \\
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of human feeling.
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For decades, \\
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she charted the terrain of joy and sorrow,\\
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of longing and hope,\\
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until her magnum opus was complete:\\
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\textit{The Atlas of the Human Heart}.
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It was exquisite.\\
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Every emotion had its precise latitude and longitude.\\
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Grief was a gray valley \\
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carved between the Solemn Hills.\\
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Contentment lay on warm plains \\
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near the Sea of Comfort.\\
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Love was a wide river, \\
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slow and predictable,\\
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flowing north toward serenity.
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No surprises.\\
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Nothing wild.\\
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Nothing uncharted.
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Everyone adored the \textit{Atlas}.\\
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Teachers built lessons around it.\\
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Counselors measured feelings \\
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with rulers and compasses.\\
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``At last,'' they proclaimed, \\
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``we understand the heart.''
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One day, a woman came to the Cartographer.\\
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Her father had recently died.\\
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Her grief was deep and raw,\\
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and she found herself \\
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wandering the Valley of Sorrow\\
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just as the \textit{Atlas} predicted.
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Everything was as it should be — \\
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until she met someone who made her laugh.\\
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Someone who brought warmth \\
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she didn't think possible.\\
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Someone who caused something wild \\
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to blossom in her breast.
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The \textit{Atlas} offered no route \\
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from grief to love.\\
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The two lay on opposite sides of the chart.
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The Cartographer explained kindly\\
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that the woman must be mistaken.\\
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``One cannot stand in the river\\
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and on the mountaintop\\
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at the same time.''
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``But I do anyway,'' \\
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the woman whispered.
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The Cartographer frowned.\\
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``Impossible.\\
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You are confusing sadness\\
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with attachment,\\
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or affection \\
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with longing.\\
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Tell me precisely what you feel.''
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The woman tried,\\
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but her words were messy and mingled and beautiful.\\
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The Cartographer cataloged each one,\\
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tracing lines on the Atlas\\
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to show why her descriptions \\
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could not be true.
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At last, the woman bowed her head\\
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and said, \\
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very softly,\\
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``Perhaps something is wrong with me.''
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As she turned to leave, \\
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she wept.
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Her tears were not polite.\\
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They were fierce, \\
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volcanic, \\
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unstoppable.\\
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They flowed onto the table\\
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where the \textit{Atlas} lay open.\\
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Drops splashed the ink.
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At once, the map changed.
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The black lines shimmered.\\
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Colors bled into one another.\\
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The tidy borders between emotions\\
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dissolved like salt in water.
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The river of love \\
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curved toward the valley.\\
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The valley opened \\
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into a canyon of marvel.\\
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New coastlines appeared — \\
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strange and beautiful — \\
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where sorrow and tenderness \\
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braided together\\
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like strands of gossamer hair.
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The Cartographer stared.
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She tried blotting the ink.\\
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She tried redrawing the lines.\\
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But the more she fought,\\
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the more the \textit{Atlas} \\
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bloomed with impossible landscapes:
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mountains of nostalgia,\\
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bittersweet forests of wonder,\\
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thunderstorms of joy\\
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that rained tears of sorrow.
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The woman stood at the door,\\
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watching.
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After a long while,\\
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the Cartographer put down her pen.
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``Tell me again,'' she said.
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The woman hesitated.
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``Precisely?''
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The Cartographer looked at the ruined map.
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``No.''
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\medskip
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For months afterward,\\
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the Cartographer worked on a new edition.
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Some of the old roads remained.\\
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Some rivers kept their names.\\
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She still drew valleys,\\
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mountains,\\
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forests,\\
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and seas.
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But here and there\\
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she stopped drawing.
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The first time,\\
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her pen hovered over the empty paper\\
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for nearly an hour.
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Then she wrote:
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\textit{Cor Incognitum} — \\
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The Unknown Heart.
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In time,\\
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other blank regions appeared.
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She never filled them in.
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\reflectionshead
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What if the boundaries we draw around feeling are only shadows, and the heart is a country without a map? |