They say when the student is ready the teacher will appear. So do my songs start appearing before me now. Of course it seems like it is me who finds them: I browse Youtube and Spotify, remembering what else I wanted to check out, hearing tips from friends… But we know it’s not what it seems. The songs and the poems certainly know when I need them. They are pouring all kinds of truths into my expanding heart, filling it with contradictions without any hope for a solution. That’s okay. Poets are not mathematicians; they don’t get praised for resolving equations.
Today’s chant may be about sprouting into your lifetime sweetheart and dying together in one day. Tomorrow’s poem may depict the horrifying impression of new love on a stranger’s smile. You can have your heart cut and pierced over and over again; or you can leave it be stable and lasting like a desert plant appreciating perpetual rounds of hot days and cool nights. Which one is right? Uncertain. Neither poets nor logics know. The reason why not is the fucking Time that is not equal to all matter. Unlike desert climate, human heartbeat is not so reliable. A stop is a stop. Only a song will remain.