Solace

 I've found solace in words in the form of songs, poetry and stories that whisk me away from the real world I so long to escape.  

When I see something beautiful, my heart sings songs in words my brain cannot fathom and my pen cannot conjure. Why is it so that every emotion I feel is coupled with a heartsong that I am able to feel in my soul, but when i sit to write it down the pages remain empty? Why is it so that as a child I would write poems- about the light that shines in the stars that twinkle and the sun that shines, about the rain that would descend from the clouds unto my cold warm skin and the rain that would fall from my eyes unto my cheeks- and yet as an adult the only difference I see on the paper is the blot of the teardrop that dries too fast. Why is it that my heart sings sonnets when I see a painting or a photograph and it paints a picture when i read a poem? Why is it that I am unable to describe in words how I feel and yet words can perfectly describe how I am feeling? Why is it that something that once made the heaviness in my heart feel lighter like a cool breeze does under the azure sky now further weighs my heart down? Why do we compare the art we create that speak the language of our souls to others when the language we speak may not even be the same? Why is it that art feels no longer like a manifestation and a celebration of emotions but a juxtaposition of two identically non identical things in order to determine which expression of emotion is best? Why is it that the mind seeks validation as if the heaviness lifted from the heart, through art, is no longer enough? One day I wish, to again, be able to break free from the heaviness I impose on my heart and sing songs freely as the cool winds caresses my face at dusk. One day I wish I could see art as the expression it's supposed to be and not the competition I have made it into. And i wish not to lose more years and stop myself from singing the heartsongs in the language of my soul.