. Source: The Fic-news Journal
Julián A.B., a resident of Madrid, has been suffering from all kinds of emotional disappointments for years. He does not suffer from any coronary disease, yet he was convinced that his heart hurt as if it were being struck. A condition that «spread to his entire soul,» according to what he has told this media outlet.
It is six in the afternoon when I meet with Julián at a café in Madrid’s Plaza de Santa Ana. He arrives on time, with an elegant demeanor and a shy smile. I shake his hand, and we sit at a table by the window. Outside, the pigeons peck at the joints of the pavement like mechanical birds.
After discussing the routine of life, Julián refers to the past:
“We are people, no matter how old you are, you still fall in love: it’s a totally involuntary feeling. The excitement comes, time seems to stop, and your life fills… it fills with what you have imagined. When the veil from your eyes falls, you start to truly know that person, and the truth is that the chances of success are minimal. People are hurt, and the consequence is narcissism, not knowing how to love: they throw their rage at you, some intentionally, others unintentionally, and end up destroying you without you realizing it, just like the drop of water erodes the rock. By the time you want to end the relationship, it may be too late, you’re already sunk, and your heart hurts.”
I observe Julián. He alternates his gaze between the pigeons and us. I ask him: today we have ways to get out of almost everything. Can you get over unrequited love?
“The question is not whether one can recover from unrequited love, but how many times your heart can bear it. After one, another comes, one that seems to take you into account and treats you kindly, but one day it transforms and spits all its venom at you, and you start over, trying to overcome the hope that comes and goes. You get angry with God, but you don’t have the courage to ask Him to take away your freedom. Pain is the price of freedom. Joy too, but that doesn’t hurt!” (Julián laughs.)
I laugh too, then I ask: What have you done to your heart, Julián?
I’ve implanted an exoskeleton. It’s an armor made of a lightweight, unalterable material that covers the whole heart. One day I thought, I wish there were a shield that protected me from so much pain: emotional abuse, the death of my best friend, the cruel abandonment of a father who breathes hatred and runs from his responsibility, the toxic envy of a coworker, watching your neighbor consume himself day by day because of drugs, the death of innocents… I tried turning off the TV, those events… but it wasn’t enough. I’ve read a lot about emotional harm to the heart, cortisol, the impact it has on us, and I located an experimental neurocardiologist who was experimenting on animals by isolating the heart with exoskeletons to protect it from suffering. I wanted to be the first to have one. Science is for something.”
Julián puts his hand to his chest as he tells me about his decision. I’m surprised. Many questions come to mind. I ask him: Don’t you think that if you isolate yourself from suffering, it’s like living in a gilded cage?
“Maybe, but I think I’m healthy. If right now someone shot you and you died on the spot here, right in front of me, I wouldn’t cry, I’d try to analyze a situation I can no longer change and would pray for your soul. That’s it. I’d leave this café, and my life would go on normally. My heart is now protected. I no longer suffer.”
We continue the conversation a few more minutes before leaving the place. He invites me for coffee. He gave me some details about the surgery and the post-op. He seemed like a satisfied, complete man, confident in himself, and also handsome.
When we left, a woman stopped in front of us. She knew Julián. She greeted him spontaneously. They hadn’t seen each other in many years. She was a beautiful woman, with a sensual profile, a serene face, no ring, her eyes sparkled when she spoke to Julián. They hadn’t seen each other since university, she said. She reminded Julián of some funny anecdote in a tone that breathed romance. She insisted on reconnecting and meeting again. She wrote her phone number on a scrap of paper from her bag and handed it to her dear friend. They said their goodbyes.
Julián and I kept walking. I accompanied him to the subway entrance and noticed that he tore up the paper with his friend’s phone number and threw it into a nearby trash bin. His face remained impassive. In my fifteen years as a journalist, I had never seen anything like it. Then I realized that Julián’s exoskeleton had deprived him of the ability to suffer, but also of the ability to feel love.
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