It is all perfect. This is all entirely correct. The small-
ness. The triviality. Sheer, daunting, cliffscape minute-
ness. It is of vital importance. In every pursuit except excuse.
Or alleviation. From the one inarguable commandment of life.


Let us start at the beginning. At the heart.
Each tiny minuscule cell beats. Contracts.
No heart is squeezed, or pressed, or gripped into action.
Just broken into a trillion seamless pieces
All showed up to orchestra rehearsal on time
Ready to start.

No matter the proportion.
All life is collaboration.
And the further we stare exclusively outward
The smaller, less consequential, more unimportant
Problems unreal
We’ll feel.

Because there is no universe to know outside of us.
Everything we are meant to know can not be avoided.
You are Atlas.
The boon of self awareness.

The realization that you are currently highly covetable real estate in the universe.
You’re third violin in a symphony of millions.

There isn’t one cell in a sea of heart.
You are the heart.

A heart cell.

To declare the answers to those questions are and have always been within.
And the only way to claim ignorance against them is to ask them out loud to the world.
And never whisper them alone under your breath.

If you ever so desired to learn if there was a secret purpose to life
Why should you need to ask anyone else other than yourself?

Fully Whole

I must fix my heart.
Center it
right where it is
inside me.

As you must do for yours.
Once you find it.
How I did.

Looking in all the wrong places.
In people’s faces.
Crossed mountain ranges.
In labor.
And loss.
And certainly in rediscovery.

Fix your heart.
Fix my heart.

Once you locate our broken part.
The pipe that is leaking.
Leaving good clean heart-water on the ground.
Oiled heart-pistons hesitant to pound. To push.

When it is fixed you will know.
Water will flow.
Fuel will explode.

You must find your heart and fix it.
Or you will never be fully whole.