Today my heart writes a poem and my hands feel light with contentment.
I thought that line differently from how my fingers typed the letters. My hands write a poem; my heart feels light with contentment. But perhaps the part of my brain that is quieter than the rest of my body and my fingers know better compared with my conscious thoughts. I have been trying to think about it and such is the case: I am not sure how my heart feels. That is not news; but sometimes it still feels out of the ordinary to say so. I used to make my brain dictate what my heart should feel, given whatever circumstances. I believed there was a right answer to everything, until the old questions lost their charm. Still, I never stopped asking. Yet those that piqued my interest felt like collapsed stars with nothing much in them—maybe they are gibberish, many others say that is how it sounds to them whenever I share.
Sometimes that made me want to stop asking, at least not out loud. Just keep to myself that way I am sure they would never lose their charm in the sea of sameness. However: time. Time is a wave of its own. Staying still in the midst of all the motions weathers a rock. So I could not stop asking.
Still, luckily, sometimes the sea of sameness makes me want to never stop asking, maybe even to ask louder, in a melody weirder than a sea in the middle of a stormy night.
Today I am a boat dancing in the deepest of seas.