Contemplation

There are moments when the words settled inside me are stirred up by the throes of emotion, and rise to the surface of my chest.

They press against my ribcage, struggling against their confinement, notifying me that they need to break free.

There are days when I feel so restless that I need to scream my thoughts to the clouds until the edges of my letters scratch my throat on their way out, rendering me hoarse yet satisfied in the aspect that I may communicate these ideals to the outside world. 

All I need in order to satisfy my soul is the written word, ink bleeding over blank pages in the midst of my late night ramblings.

Earth itself craves contemplation. It requires the drops of creativity to satiate the dry cracks of modern pain that are too often masked by silence. 

Yet the nights I spend awake in physical pain while my chest aches and fingers tremble in the frantic attempts to make my thoughts known to the few that will listen, and the fewer that will understand? 

These are the nights that make me finally realize that I am alive. 

I crave the stimulation of comprehension from the outside world that allows me to revel in the fact that I am not alone with these urges to write until my words are bruised upon my fingers, simply because they are meant to be heard.

Too many of us are told to squash down our thoughts, to focus on mathematical computations, while nobody ever stopped to think about the fact that maybe the way you spend sleepless nights encrypting the curve of your lover’s lips onto the pages holds enough passionate intelligence to trump even the most complex of Einstein’s theories.

Human expression is far too often overlooked, and I will toil until I am weary from the explosion of my own thoughts onto these pages to make just one other soul understand that expressing yourself can be so worth so much more than any law of science.

I may not have memorized any mathematical equations, but I am at home with my words.