Until lately, my heart has lay quiet. My soul does not speak up to me, pour out as it should. Some write as if this were a deliberate, meaningful part of growing up. Yet, what if it is nothing more than the effects of society beating me into submission? That to have an eager, open heart, full of passion is to err, and maybe I have simply started to give in. My rusty writing bares this horrible mistake. No little can I form a word than believe it is a lie. I sit in these morning hours, hoping to come up with some great plan to recapture myself.
Yet, as these words again begin to flow. It is not in the plan, but the action. For one can know the form of swimming and know nothing of the rhythm that makes it smoothing and free, efficient. So I sit no longer, awaiting a plan. I have acted time and again, fearing the reprisal of inaction. Yet, I always thought that plans and action would some day commingle.
So again, I learn while en route. Plans?! What are these but potential energy that could forever remain so? Action will bring good deeds about. Inaction will only make for a wasted life.