I chafe at the enormity of what my heart wants. Clipped by the sheer volume of what it calls to it. So feeble, my human body. Capable of only a fraction of what I seek out. In moments of surging energy, it emanates a beacon. Inviting to it all the bounties that its cloying desperation yearns for. And my fickle bones buckle under it all.
My heart is an event horizon around which everything slows. It beats in steady anticipation of the harvests it’s tended to. But all around it, the world moves in a more measured pace. Everything deliberate, everything calculated. It thumps impatiently in a vacuum, cursing the capricious bounds it’s been locked into. Gilded bars around a shanty backdrop. So little it can manipulate outside the gaps of its jailer. But that doesn’t mean it can’t influence its surroundings. It tampers with the weather, exploits the elements. It pulls what it can into its worthy gravity.
Such a strange discrepancy, a confounding diaspora. That we wield such an extraordinary weapon, the nuclear energy of unfiltered wanting, in a vessel that can’t keep pace. It’s a conundrum I try and fail to understand, a balance I find impossible to strike. And year after year, it’s an alien feeling I forsake to place.