“Out Of Rhythm”
When the Heart Beats Out of Time These days, I find myself writing more than ever before—not to impress, not to explain, but simply to survive my own thoughts. Writing has become the only place where I am completely open, where I do not have to guard my emotions or filter my pain. When I write, I feel as though I am opening my chest and letting the truth breathe for a moment. Strangely, that openness feels good. It soothes me. It reminds me that even when I cannot speak to people, something inside me still wants to be heard. Perhaps writing feels comforting because it allows me to be vulnerable without being seen. There is no fear of judgment on a blank page. No expectation to be strong. No demand to smile. The words accept me as I am—confused, tired, afraid, and honest. Writing does not rush me. It waits. Lately, however, my writing has begun to circle around one recurring thought: my heart. Not just emotionally, but physically. I am painfully aware that my heartbeat does not mov...
