Have you ever put your hand over your heart? It's warm. Your hand always seems to fit perfectly over your heart. It can be rapid like a hummingbird or, really slow. Almost as though there is no heart inside you.
Then there are the days when it flutters, like an injured butterfly. It's terrifying you know--to feel. To feel something actually real and genuine. So much so that you stop in the middle of your tracks and try to think of what to think and say, but come up with nothing. With each pulsating breath, every spec of you expands likes electricity.
Your heart is always trying to beat as loud as it can, but we never hear it unless we are trying to pay attention to it. That is the one of the many times it seems to be quiet. Of course when we try to be as quiet as possible, and focus our whole being into silence, one part of us will never listen. Our heart will beat as loud as though a bass drum is right behind you, conveying every second that passes in our time of anxiousness and terror, joyfulness and hope, passion and disgust.
We cannot stop our hearts from trying to stretch and reach for its desire of happiness. Though we end up using our mental machetes to cut off some length of our hearts invisible hands.
