The Inner Hearth

 Desolation is not the grating and abrasive sand of an expansive desert; nor is it the merciless sun as it bleaches bones.

Desolation is not the acrid and stagnant water of a dank swamp; nor is it the trees’ weak perspiration as it drips and echoes.

Desolation is not the vast and barren sea, full of salt and brine; nor is it the minuscule waves as they lap and tease of far-away winds.

Nay, desolation is this house of a heart, with all ready to make a home.

It is the late summer sun filtering through the shade, the spectacle of a sunset. It’s the glory of the Milky Way, the miracle of the universe.

It is a hearth warmed and a kettle heated.

Indeed, desolation is this house of a heart: furnished and ready, with no occupant to share but for one’s own shadow as it pivots with the arc of time.

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I have a brain fungus, and it’s called a heart

  The heart is purely its own domain. If the mind should seek to trespass the heart, it’s as an alien with not the legs to walk upon that world, nor the eyes to see the colors that saturate. Yet the heart can easily infiltrate the mind, shaping its very matter and altering its perception after the heart’s own intentions.