I have been thinking for the longest time,
about the nature of life, the nature of the heart.
How strange that we move through years,
decades even, in search of what? Another?
As if existence in all its fullness—
its mountains, storms, its cities thick with light,
the quiet astonishment of dawn—
is not enough to fill this heart,
but must instead revolve around a stranger.
Think of the absurdity:
all this gravity in our bones, pulling toward one
small piece in the vastness, one
face in the crowded streets,
one voice among millions.
We could fall in love with the sky,
with the way rain stitches the earth with water,
or with the silence just before night
swallows the last sliver of sun.
Yet, no, our hearts grow set on seeking another heartbeat,
filling themselves with the fragile light of another's eyes,
as if nothing else could hold our attention,
as if the stars themselves pale
in comparison to some unknowable other.
Imagine—
we could love a thousand things,
walk through this world with awe for every leaf,
or stand in a city of strangers and feel whole.
But no, we chase and chase,
trying to find our "other half" as if we were born unfinished,
as if life itself decreed it, set it in our bones,
the need to find someone
when so much exists already
just aching to be loved.
