when one does not know their place in relation to another living being,
all opportunities of stability are lost
lost to the gush of questions impounding the mind
the flood of unsatisfaction
streaming from the only question whose validity the human mind and heart have yet to diminish;
for it is the human search for meaning that grips every heart,
whose thumb presses the delicate construction of our suprasternal notch and takes from us nearly all the breath in our bodies and tears in our eyes-

and when the great shudders of ones’s own heart colliding furiously against the tender breast are nearly too passionate to bear,
when each impact shatters the constitution of the fibrous muscles holding you upright,
when you have no power but to draw yourself inward, throwing each limb up to protect your heart,
or perhaps to protect the outside world

for the heart struggles for freedom like a caged predator
so steely its resolution that the heart’s succession of rejuvenated efforts, each as equally whole-hearted as the last, can only be the result of a kind of desperation

it is the fulfillment of purpose, the end of our search for meaning which may quell the anger in our hearts

yes, therein lies the answer to the riddle in every heart: what reason have i to stay? it asks of us,
and it is only when we have found the key to this riddle that the unbearable tremors may calm
and man might find peace within himself.

A day may come when the heart is content in its own sinewy dwelling,
but when a heart finds its purpose and can find nothing in this world which might cause it to grasp the chipped and worn hilt
of its faithful longsword and rise to the struggle once again,
such a heart
is a heart which beats no more;

and though no longer is there pain to be felt in the vibrations of each rhythmic beat,

no longer is there possibility of life.

life,

which finds such a symphony lamentable.