There is a point where everything comes back to homeostasis for me.
I need a level of sadness to keep about the balance.
I’ve never been one to cry, get anxiety, become depressed or lose control when sadness overcomes me, rather, everything falls into balance as if I have dipped into a bath of calm.
I smell the incense of thought, feel it’s smoke move about the core of my belly until it finds its way through my veins and finally slows my heartbeat down.
I’m there, where I should be, the place where eyelids slow down, eyes squint like adjusting a camera lens on the object of focus and I feel my mind back step to take orders from the higher command of my heart.
Now I can write, now I can breathe, slow measured, deeper meaningful breaths.
Ones that I almost feel the atoms pass through my lungs and into my veins.
I thrive in that place.
Even now, as I write, I listen to the sorrowful ney flute summon the sands of the desert to even out the rough terrain of my soul, to leave it barren and dry, so that it may receive the rain evenly and well.