I’m an artist. I should be able to do this “map of my heart” exercise without a single bead of sweat squeezed from a confused and worried brow. Sadly, I don’t know the ways of my own heart. My whole life has been backroads and crossroads, side trips and tours, frustrated by dead ends everywhere, all on lands constantly shifting.
There is no stepping into the same river twice, change occurring naturally, necessarily, even as foot finds purchase on the rocky bed, and neither can I retrace a path already erased by Time and growth. If memories were places my heart would be a crowded country, but memories are moments and my heart is a clock.
I spend my days playing with its hands, moving aimlessly through yesterdays and years. And today? I know. My heart needs to move forward, to turn freely, but abandoning the hands of Time to Nature produces neither sound nor motion. I let go, and I let go, and sit, still, sans tick, sans terror, sans tock, sans triumph. There seems to be nothing left but Time.