This month of May marks twenty-five years of the first transplant of heart carried out in Spain, a young man who escaped life to jets. Thousands of hearts have managed since then until now, but these heartbeats that feel and accompany from the first verse of life until the last stanza we recite walk wrong. Hearts in the operating theatres in hospitals are arranged, their heartbeats with Electro are measured as if they were a collection of watercolors boring and monotonous, that rise and fall and tell you if you’re alive, but no one yet has managed those beats that drive the daily life of human beings. They say that the first signs of pain occur when heart beats our chest as if you would like to skip, but not. They are looks that surround our lives. If looks lack of clemency, it is where first feels the heartbeat of pain; in the riveted eyes of injustice where the beat lost its purity. I think said it Quevedo, poet of the rhetoric fair and successful satire, which must above all preserve the purity of our heartbeat thing others.
If today lived it would be stone by this walking backward from the natural, it would face a dance of hearts without ticking, a world that what is natural becomes something very different from what Rousseau dreamt. Rightly defined Quevedo to the heart as the poison of reason; it poisons and degrades the healthier atmospheres. The atmosphere of violence, hatred, envy, and the lack of solidarity are still beating with more force today that heartbeat values. It is useless to protest, kicking, mocking or cry because against a sick heart beat, there is little to say. Sometimes the heart beats like a rabid bite of hatred and manages to tears of violence; Sometimes it beats under impulses of resentment and slander and the next as a sharp stab of envy that show every moment that the contents of the heart, when it sounds, is not more than pocket change. From the desert of Genesis until the asphalt of New York, the figure of Cain navigates in the heart of all mortals. The profile of these hearts melts with our memory, transgresses the time and lives wandering the Earth reincarnated in successive figurations.
Ideally, start it and throw away it like an old rag and make a different one. And that someone put a brand-new heart and which, incidentally, us pula, us recompose, again we forge to understand why the heart blows with other beats and never makes you feel, don’t feel what he says and says what he thinks. A surgeon, please, for a brand-new heart, for the mind, for the soul, prior to us to react with a Rale or fear to climb by the throat, and nothing calme. No one knows to what paradise or hell, after twenty-five years, will lead science tomorrow, because it seems that the fate of the human heart consists of live always in the prehistory of the darkness.