the rarity of feeling

Every once in a while I wake up as someone else –
in the same body with the same memories and the same gestures,
seeing the same people,
maybe going to the same places
and yet, mentally, emotionally, a new world opens up
within me – is it the heart ?-
making me question my entire life so far
led by – I don’t know, something else entirely;
like an epiphany: the new, temporary me is warm, loving,
really loving, not just seeking to possess, performing rites
ingrained by society and books, not fearing death
or unconsciously simulating, no, it is the real thing,
that vague, elusive light poets try
to grasp in words, in metaphors
although the audience never knows how genuine they are-
trust me, I know you cannot really know-
the whispers of a poet devoid of feeling but full of
aspirations and ideas expressed in hyperboles
as a homage to literary beauty or
an attempt to cheat death and touch an illusion of eternity.
Yet these rare moments of
universal love, a love for the world,
they’re of the pure type, of the living-in-the-moment-breathing-
it-all-in type, of the is-this-how-we’re-supposed-to-feel-all-the-time type-
is my heart dormant, covered in ice, ready to break and cut
but not ready to warm up?
am I overthinking, oversimplifying, or misunderstanding
matters of the heart?
how much were these rare short glimpses of pure feeling self-induced,
merely an illusion?
the mind is a powerful weapon
yet unreliable
no matter who you are,
no matter what stage you’re on-
it is a reflection, an abyss, a mirror without a real subject.

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