All letters on my keyboard, all letters seeping through the tip of my tongue, all letters randomly forming into words like endless streams of thought. Letters boldly folding the miracles in and around us into repetitive patterns, echoing our limited human presentations in language that we use to classify, to order, to possess. This language strikes me as foreign to the heart. Does the heart want to possess or be possessed?

Sometimes, little heart, I feel I can savor every one of your beats. But often I revel in an outer world, turning and turning in circles of nothingness, blinded by illusions, deluding my very senses. I find myself so far, and though you continue your incessant, knocking thesis of life, sometimes we seemingly grow faint in our affection for one another.

Oh, my dear heart, don’t let us become strangers to ourselves. If we at our cores become polluted by all things around us that perish in meaning and significance, then who are we? I wonder, you, soft-spoken treasure, granted to us as a gift, not fixed on any condition, not stuck in the hollow maze of shiny tokens and riches – I wonder: does your stillness entice us into your depths, so that we may interlace our purposes anew? I have little doubt that they are in their essence the same.

So here I stand and weep for I recognize you as the forgotten soul of the universe, adjoining every one of us. In stillness I count your vibrations in the big and the small, devouring the crest of each of your waves, motions so pure, in the cusp of my hand, each length of life running across a finger. I cannot bring to a halt your surge. All I can contribute is to be here entirely. To be; as in these same folds language then becomes obsolete, and we, at once, unified witnesses and participants in this miracle.