Monte Carlo

I've traveled considerably far and wide to only find myself edging about the narrow width of a wandering heart; a heart that is capable of only so much acceptance under harsh exposures. It hasn't heard, nor has it seen, but it has sensed in a peculiar way the places it finds itself in, such as the opulent grounds of Monaco where the rich and famous bask in their public display of luxury surplus, living on personalised yachts and fancy suites alike, shutting the world out in their want of a utopian bubble. It has found itself in places that are difficult to escape, impossible to understand and absolutely crazy to believe. What it has encountered in the recent months has left it almost palpitating to the rhythm of a temperamental drum, a pulse that taps according to the faint patter of unpredictable rain - the more it gets dragged on, the looser it gets. I haven't quite had the privilege to come to terms with many of the events and places that have shaped me into believing my circumstances are not as complex as they ought to be, and just like the aforementioned rhythm, at times I'm with it, and most times it drifts away from my delicate sense of rationale. And it alerts the heart to fall back on the idea of wanting to pursue more places of travel just so it can once again dip into sensitivity, and to an extent, oblivion, in the midst of all that is bustling and alive. What good is it, that the heart is exposed to all sorts of treatment and weather, only to be put back into its respective system and be told, 'Hey, this is all you get to interpret. Forget the looser rhythms.' Does it go through a stage of rebellion, where it sometimes shocks itself to a point where it misconfigures what is accurate, and denies itself the comfort of dwelling on a well established fact? Does it also mask itself in ignorance as it forms a shield around the harsher reality of the elements that outskirt it? I do believe it knows damn well what it is capable of, and how it is made strong to endure the tumultuous conditions of the world that envelops it, but perhaps, it sometimes still beats to its own artificial pulse, and it simply - and stupidly - forgets who it was made for.