The heart does not write, It does not sit before paper, with pen in hand, or keyboard with fingers poised over fading letters.
The heart speaks, often in a rapid, unexpected torrent. It is moved, and it moves. It brings forth angst, anguish, betrayal, denial, and triumphs. It sings of dances seen over and over again. All while remaining secret. It gushes rather than plods. Its synchronicity is sometimes out of time to its own rhythm.
The heart is art; It is passion, It is the source, the ocean that feeds the rivers of souls, And the question that longs to be answered. It speaks in minutes while taking lifetimes to be understood. Minutes from the Heart stands not as a gift as much as a challenge. Do with it what you will.
