Love memoirs

Words and Incoherent Hearts

I call them all back. I call back my words, every expression and everything I wish I said. Days continue to slip through my fingers and I watch my potential increasing. Life is moving, time is moving; but are we? Am I running towards my potential or away from it? The days keep passing, and I try to balance myself on a razor edge of exploration.

Do I burden myself? Do we all burden ourselves with expectations? How heavy should the burden get before we put it down and say that’s it? Or is the burden of expectation the necessary and hidden fuel of creation?

I call my words back, and as they trip on their curves and edges, I start running towards them. There isn’t enough time for perfect sentences, or perfect sunsets. An urgency of creation takes a hold of me and my fingers abandon me to their addiction. The words, oh the words and that flow; it quenches my thirst for greatness. Words will do; they always have, and I suppose they inevitably will. They pour out, in a language I learned over my own but I don’t care. I have a heartbreaking experience with my first language; one that included a man who took my words away and told me that the words I used were never mine, that I use them too liberally. He broke my words and my heart. So I went to the first lover that would have me after that. It doesn’t matter, this language will do, and if it also begins to fail at any point there are others. Perhaps creation doesn’t care; it only needs my heart, my fingers and my words strung together into a liberating rhythm of coherence.

And when my words become coherent, my heart rests. Everything suddenly makes sense, every broken promise, every open wound, every great pain and every elaborate joy. As my words come back to me and mend into coherent sentences, so do my experiences. The heart heals when it can find its pace again. Even though days don’t wait for me, no matter how much I beg; it doesn’t matter. There are other days, the same way there are other languages, and there are other hearts capable of glorious beats.

I call my words back; and one by one they return to my heart to pay their tribute and then they leave to become somebody else’s again. Time continues to move, nothing stops; the potential grows and I look at my words. Just a little bit longer; those words are mine, and then they ask to be released. Their work is done, my heart restarts, the burden lessens and my words move on; so do I…

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