Heartmoor

I can only vaguely remember the farm. The faintest memory I have is this one year old, I guess me, laying on his back in the dirt. Mum’s hanging over me either changing my lil shoes or watching the sun and shadows dance all over me. It’s always a bit blurry. Been a while since I wondered how much this part of my life affected me. The fact that I know I can never return to the warmth of that farm. This longing to feel the braza sun-cooked soil in between my toes as I escape down this stoney path as I wave to Burro. I’m yet to return with this heaven that lies awake, but I imagine it’s built over now with horrible slabs of concrete and buildings for all the lonely ones to hide in. No more massive cooking pots for feeding the collective suns. Just single stove tops with single pans with single beds.

Can my heart ever feel at home when its chords stretched the Atlantic before it reached three? How do I connect with a land I have no right to call my own? Where does an anchor bury when there’s no earth below the waters? A heart too deep for any moor to understand. Sawn in half from the age of two. My Heart stayed behind in Brazil and my Mind’s been missing it ever since, plagued with the empty busyness of London. There’s no room left to breathe with that ever-expansive distance, but who do I tell these tales of a moon left to wander the void alone? How many questions from the mind can a heart take?

I removed these many layers of in-yun before and it went swimmingly unwell. I wonder if fear will keep me from posting the letter next door when my doormat says No one’s home. I had a dream once that I lived alone then I woke and saw the stars pulling the strings. I wonder if they know what they’re doing to this kid with all their ruling and governing. They must have known it would leave this heart with no option but to moor at a new place every time its mirror grew. My parents followed their heartmoors. Look where that got em. Stuck with a sun full of guilt. Do I do the same or just sit here stuck to my ways of mediocrity? I get it. I know. Through pain we’ll come together. But when there’s no one left to gather, where does the heart lead? This navigator is getting pretty exhausted. The endless thumbing through books looking for clues that lead back home. It’s almost not worth the dust mite allergy.

The whispers have been quiet recently, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. The pot’s over boiling on this single stove but I just left it and watched the smoke disappear into the singular extractor. I seem more interested in destroying the concrete cubes these days, I almost forgot about trying to get back to my never home. My memories have never been all too good. But I somehow remember the feeling of a thousand lifetimes. It was never meant to mix across the different strands. I spent a long time keeping the threads apart. Somewhere along the line, a few hearts got tangled. I was told it was easy to untie but lost the end of the yarn on the train last week. It fell out of my pocket as the doors closed and somehow travelled to East Finchley. I knew that was weird because I’d never been there. So maybe that’s where my anchor is, but maybe not, I lost that even longer ago. I think somewhere between denying my brother the cure to solitude and a moonstone I stole for my sister.

Ten minutes left on the timer, I wonder if their hearts watch everyone as much as I do. Trapped inside these eyes absorbing everything but the rain that longs to feel my tongue. I’ve clicked my back so many times and taken so many shallow chesty breaths, coughing deep into the night, I wonder if I’ll notice. I’ve tried all the tricks and secrets but it all comes back to you. A face that looked up at this oak sage and realized, there’s moor in that heart than a cage for tabletop rules. Isn’t that the greatest trick of them all?

I wonder if they’ll ever tell you the parts these planets play. This beautifully conducted song. Full of ebbs and flows that ride these unknown rhythms. The secret to this multiple oneness, the daily messiahs learn to say. It sprouts from the bamboo shoots that surround this sacred spot.

My brother used to say it all the time, it’s called Life.