“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 move in the rhythm it should. It stumbles, hesitates, and reminds me constantly that something is not right. Every irregular beat feels like a warning, like a quiet message my body is trying to send me. I know, deep inside, that if things continue this way—if stress, sadness, and silence keep piling up—my heart may not endure for very long or rather it’s time to stop the beat . Living with this awareness changes everything. Time feels heavier. Days feel measured not by clocks, but by pulses. Sometimes I place my hand on my chest just to reassure myself that it is still beating, still trying. Other times, I am afraid to check. There is a strange tension in knowing that the very thing keeping me alive also feels fragile. My heart has become both my companion and my concern. These thoughts are disturbing. They linger even when I try to distract myself. Even when I am surrounded by people, my mind retreats inward, listening to a rhythm only I can hear. There are moments when the future feels conditional, as though life itself is waiting for something to change before deciding whether it will stay. Carrying such thoughts quietly is exhausting. It drains energy from even the simplest moments. This is when books became my refuge.

Books ask nothing from me. They do not notice when I withdraw. They do not question my silence or my absence. When I do not want to show my face to anyone, when I wish to disappear for a while without causing concern, books are there. They offer me other lives, other hearts, other pains—proof that suffering has always existed and that I am not alone in feeling this way. Reading allows me to be alone without feeling empty. It gives my mind a place to rest when my own thoughts become too loud. In stories, I find echoes of myself—characters who are tired, frightened, hopeful, broken, and still breathing. Sometimes, that is enough. I was not always like this.

There was a time when I was free—when I felt like an independent bird, fearless and always moving. I used to fly without hesitation, trusting the wind and the sky. I did not overthink tomorrow. I did not listen so closely to my own heartbeat. Life felt wide, open, and possible. I belonged to movement, not to stillness. But something changed. Slowly, quietly, that bird grew tired. The wings that once carried me effortlessly began to ache. Responsibilities, disappointments, unspoken emotions, and constant inner pressure weighed me down. I did not fall suddenly—I descended little by little, until solitude felt safer than flight. Now, I crave isolation not because I dislike people, but because pretending costs too much. Being alone allows me to remove the mask. It gives my heart a break from performing strength when it is already struggling to keep its rhythm. Solitude is not loneliness; it is self-preservation.

What troubles me most is how my mind, aware of my heart’s weakness, sometimes creates silent deadlines—unspoken measures of time, as though life must prove itself worthy of continuing. These thoughts do not come from a desire to disappear, but from exhaustion. From the fear of living endlessly in this fragile, uncertain state. Carrying this weight while continuing to function normally feels like walking with a fracture no one can see. And yet—despite everything—I still write. That must mean something. Perhaps writing is my heart’s way of compensating for what it cannot do physically. Each sentence feels like a heartbeat put into words. Each paragraph, a rhythm I can control when my own feels unreliable. Writing becomes proof that I am still here, still thinking, still feeling.

This essay is not an answer. It is not a solution. It is simply honesty. It is the voice of a heart that is tired, irregular, and afraid—but still beating. Still trying. Still expressing itself the only way it knows how.If someone feels something while reading this—sadness, understanding, silence—then my writing has done its job. Because sometimes, being felt is more important than being fixed.And sometimes, continuing to write is the bravest thing a fragile heart can do.

                  ❤Joe❤