The Beat That My Heart Skipped

by quavaro

For Fabrice Muamba.

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Millions of people around the world are praying for a miracle.

Someone’s always dying, but for millions at this moment no one is dying. Everyone’s breath is held, and no one is living. One goal separates survival and elimination.

The heart can’t take it, the mind whispers. I drank too much coffee. I drank too much beer.

People are fighting for life, fighting for freedom. People are killing other people to keep those who survive them enslaved, and we are watching men at play.

Do not begrudge us this. It matters now. This is what the dying are dying for. There is nothing lower than death for nothing, and this is more than nothing.

It’s play, and there is little above it. Play is worthwhile. Play is hope and lyricism. Play is innovation. Play is symptomatic of life.

Men and women at play beget ideas and children.

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The crowd prays for Fabrice Muamba to get up.

Thousands of people on the television screen visibly direct their compassion at one suffering human being–millions around the world.

A man raised from his death in the course of the contest asks first if his team won.

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