I have found that I am always hungry. I do not mean this in the sense that my belly is empty, though that is an emptiness I may choose. I mean that my heart seems always in need of being, and is never, filled. It has a hunger for gentle words, for caring, being cared for. It needs to feel and take from this world, to then create and chose ways to return what was taken. It is not mine alone for I have given it away, parceled it out amongst the people and things I hold dear, and will continue to do so for as long as I live. My heart is not my own, and I believe it has never been so. It aches when it is apart from me, it aches when I try to keep it too near. It is in a constant state of unrest, it will not be content, its balance is never kept long from being upset. It speaks vaguely of what it must do, what it must have, and my head is left to interpret what it hears but cannot feel. For it is my head that becomes all too cold and calculating when it cannot understand these soft but urgent sounds. I bounce about trying to fill one needy whisper with another, never stopping long enough to see what kind of mix of these wants might let me be content. My head leads with sound logic it thinks, but thinking is only an inexact science at best when it comes to getting what my heart needs. My head, if asked, might suggest taking my heart out back and giving it a stern speaking to. But my heart has never been one for following anything other than its own spastic beat.