When I’m not weak and weary, tumbling over thoughts and struggling past lost loves — my mind is much less full. The words don’t come as easily and the phrases don’t bombard my thoughts, begging —no, demanding— to be heard. They’re there, I’m sure they are. But they’re oh-so-silent, buried beneath the layers of doing well and far from hopeless. They wait patiently for me to seek them out and expand upon their limited leading to my heart’s wide opening.
It’s a strange feeling, to have my mind so quiet. This feeling of being okay snuck up on me while I took the time to slowly and carefully collect my broken pieces and put them back together. This feeling of whole, of being without a broken heart (or worse, of having one doubly so), it creates a lacking in that whole: a lack of hunger and lack of severity in my need for words. It’s a feeling I’m not sure I can get used to. My soul needs to produce, even when my heart holds no cause.
While this certainly seems a mark of my progress, it is the simultaneous emergence of my next challenge: to dig at the source when the words don’t spring forth.