Pulse

You’ve felt it—

that ache without pain,

that weight that won’t name

itself tired.

You called it stress.

Burnout.

Sensitive.

As if listening

were a flaw to be fired.

But it isn’t a symptom.

It’s signal.

It’s sound.

My heart isn’t just beating.

It’s leaning in,

listening down.

It listens to gut-spark and flora,

to microbes at work in the dark,

to breath held too long,

to emotion

that never made it to language or mark.

When what I feel

and the life that I live

lose rhythm, lose time,

fall apart—

my heart translates.

It compensates.

Carries the weight

I couldn’t digest at the start.

That’s why sleep doesn’t touch this tired.

That’s why rest feels thin.

My heart’s been holding

what nerves, gut, and spirit

never finished letting in.

Static and noise.

Confusion and ache.

Too many systems

asking one pulse

to stay awake.

And it can’t.

And it won’t.

And it shouldn’t have to.

My body isn’t asking for control.

It’s asking for tune.

Not another fix,

not a protocol—

but rhythm remembered,

returned to the room.

The pulse in my chest

is more than flow.

It’s call and reply.

A conversation

between what I live

and what I don’t let die.

And when that speaking comes back—

when microbes and nerves

and feeling align—

vitality doesn’t arrive loud.

It comes quiet.

On time.

This is the urgency I trust—

not panic, not fear.

Just the moment

I stop overriding

and finally hear.

What if coherence

isn’t perfect or pure,

but pulse—

steady, imperfect,

and sure?

What if my heart

didn’t hold all the noise,

but amplified harmony

instead of the void?

What would it feel like

to let truth, emotion,

and digestion move

together—

one rhythm,

one motion?