Photo by Amber Lamoreaux
The heart is tied to the hurt, the wages of our anger. The mind, what we have learned, finds a way to knit this wrath with the body and in turn communicates with its kindred.
We must take this time to grieve that we have been broken. Closer now than we have been in years, our hearts are not the same as our mind, and what would normally beg the body to find its malignancies, has been interrupted by plagues of doubt, where unity of purpose and belief can no longer share with its neighbors.
There are no eyes to satisfy this identity, a vacant stare voided solidarity. We cannot read its expression, its language severed, like borders that cannot be crossed.
Do we share in each other's pain, each other's hearts as we once did, the answer is we cannot know. The peace of our anger has died.
Confusion suffocates us, closing the air not only between these two bodies that live within us. Our pains have been separated from each other, our hurts strung out in a play we want so much to be over, if only the conductors of this confusion could listen.