The head and the heart

When the head is in conflict with the heart, how does one choose?
The reason vs. the emotions.
The correct vs. the passion.
The collected vs. the illogical.
The dimensional vs. the intangible.

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She sits across me, her hands in her head, the heavy eye circles betraying her exhaustion, her frustration. She hasn’t been sleeping, she says, and neither is she eating much. I know, for we are both sitting in a Japanese restaurant which we usually enjoy very much, and partaking very little of the food. I know, because I just do. We are like clear glasses of plain water to each other – visible to the very core.

She had thought that her feelings for him had died, following his departure overseas for his studies. And that’s just how she is, her passions for The Other usually waxed and waned quickly, even though there haven’t been many of them. And yet, here he is now, standing right before her, wanting her as much as before, probably more.

I can see myself doing it all over again, being with him, she says.

But she told him that she had lost it. She watched as he, a brilliant soul, spiraled into a broken mess of alcohol and pain. And she feels trapped in her web of lies, masquerade and hurt, because she cannot have what she so yearns for, and because she knows she is putting him in misery.

Why are you doing this to yourself, I ask, rubbing my tired eyes. He is the first person to have ever done this to you. He understands you, and you, him. Why?

Because of her Friend, one whom she cherishes very much. One who has been madly in unrequited love with The Other for years, and one who stood on the sidelines while she and The Other had tumbled into each other’s arms in an irrational frenzy.

I can’t do this again, she says quietly, gently flicking the ashes of the burning cigarette in her hand into the ashtray.

Even though she very much long to go into the strong circle of his arms once more.
Even though she misses the rapturous feeling of his lips on hers, the abandoned way they had desired each other.
Even though she marvelled at his astute comprehension of her being, the way he had looked at her when he said, You are such a small person but you need so much space.

And then, she stubs out her cigarette, looks at me in the eye and asks, how are you?

I have no answer.

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In the end, how does one choose?