A Home Without an Address

I don’t know what to believe in and what not to. I’m very intuitive but at times I do have to let go of my instincts and listen to something/someone else inside me. It does not have a name. Lets name it the black heart, that part of our heart is the home for all the negative thoughts to, the part which blocks all the wonderful, vivid thoughts to get in, the part which thinks more than it is required to. The part that stops us from taking steps that could lead us somewhere bleak, someplace where we might be made to cry out of heart brokenness. I do not know if I’m doing the right thing but I know there is this indecisiveness which is not letting me to take the step I would have taken otherwise. I feel like a traveler without a pass. No one can even help me out. This is the sort of problem I’m into. I cannot even let this feeling get dispersed out in the open. It has a secret hiding place, a burrow where it is dug deep into the earth. No one can bring it up but it is there, it will always be. This divine feeling can never escape its prison. It is well fed by the heart. So it is drying up fast. It is twisting in profound pain. It is hurt. It is suffering but it cannot show. It has to be tough. God only knows when it will be freed. It seems it is waiting for the green signal but it is nowhere. I’m informed there will be one but it never arrives I stand waiting but it never comes. Just lost fragments of something concrete flies with the petrified air making me choke, at the same time I remain mum. Meanwhile, the grasses grow. The flowers and the bees and the birds continue their conversations. The sky remains blue, then turns yellow and ends being red. A new day arrives along with it brings new hopes and dreams. No, not for me anymore. My patience is wearing out. I’m getting tired. Just like the rains here. They keep on assaulting the green sheen and the muddy drains. They rule the days and nights for some time but then they too get tired. They ultimately lose the battle and then give way to the other seasons. With a promise to return next winter, summer with the same old ravages and storms. But I am not in a position to promise a comeback. The heart will ultimately become a grave what with all the hidden remains.
A home without an address – that is all there is.