Prologue

A rainy Friday evening reveals a scene of another corporate worker lounging in her bed, her fingers dancing over the keyboard like a relentless machine. The screen of her laptop emits a soft glow in the dim room, illuminating her face, reminiscent of the moon borrowing light from the sun.

With all work-related tabs minimized, it's time for her to don her favorite hat.

The Analyst's Mindset

Picture a gardener in an orchard, with a basket poised to gather ripe fruits. I find myself knocking on the door of my mind, eager to tap into the fountain of creativity.

"It's time to craft some content!" I cheerfully announce to my mind, hoping for a torrent of thoughts to wash over me as my keyboard becomes both a beacon of inspiration and a source of flowing words.

Silence settles in. I knock a little harder, the resonating thuds reflecting my rising anxiety while I reach out to my heart.

"Do you have anything to share with the world?" my heart prompts, a mix of caution and hope echoing in her words.

Another wave of silence envelops us, akin to a blackout during an online video.

"Is there really nothing?" I wrestle with a growing disappointment.

I strain to catch any hint that could guide my writing.

Fleeting ideas start to surface. Yes, keep them coming. Capitalism, greed – the chains of a world much more nuanced than simple black and white.

"But, I don't believe I'm the right person to comment on issues I don’t fully grasp. Sure, I can express my feelings about the corporate structure, but I also want to share genuine insights. I need time," my mind interjects with a more assertive tone, drowning out the whispers I’m trying to capture.

I glance at my meager draft, cluttered with notes saying "insert reference." It reminds me of my work life. Here we go again; even in my downtime, my mind churns out content.

"It seems unfair for a young soul to constantly absorb so much and be squeezed dry," my heart replies.

I envision souls resembling SpongeBob SquarePants. His vibrant yellow hue would fade and wrinkle if his life revolved solely around the Krusty Krab without any jellyfishing escapades. The voice of Professor Trelawney mingles with this imagery, as she addresses Hermione Granger:

"You may be young in years, but your heart beats beneath your bosom as shriveled as an old maid's; your soul as parched as the pages of the books you cling to."

Once again, I knock on the door, this time with greater urgency, attempting to evade the haunting specter of spiritual aging.

"Don’t worry; we can let our thoughts flow freely here. There’s no need to wait for answers today. Let's inhale and write about the sensations that waft through our nostrils. Just as they are. Remember the sky and the cars we observed on our commute yesterday," I gently encourage, glancing at my heart, who seems to ponder deeply, as if a lightbulb is flickering within her.

"Are you referring to the well-known car brands we see on the road?" my mind inquires.

"No – more like the vivid and muted colors; the stories behind frowns, the emotions behind speeding cars that drive us mad," my heart interjects, prompting a grateful sigh from me.

"Are you two discussing how the infrastructure never seems to address the traffic jams on our route to work? Or how it's always the Chinese drivers that irritate you?" The door creaks open slightly, revealing a mind brimming with ideas.

"Well, yes, but – "

"I can research that," my mind assures me.

Yes, but it’s the weekend, for crying out loud. This entire writing ritual is supposed to be a weekly escape. It’s unhealthy to continually ingest a deluge of information and cues – it’s like trying to drink from a fire hose with your mouth wide open; the pressure alone could crush you. Knowledge should be consumed in small, measured doses.

A mind that consumes without nourishing is a shame. Be, rather than just do. To reflect, not merely accept.

"I can write about what you see, not just what you read – as long as you occasionally set aside the analyst's hat," I respond, and silence washes over us once more.

This silence embodies two concepts; one, a perpetual state of doing with no space for being, the silence I encountered when I first knocked – and now, the silence of being; a state my mind is still getting accustomed to. I choose to leave my mind alone, dropping the basket at its threshold. When it's ready, my mind will fill it.

"Heart, come," I call as I step away from the door. My heart remains at the entrance, scribbling on a piece of parchment. "What’s that?" I ask, leaning in to catch a glimpse.

How fortunate I am to be embraced by the realm of poets…

For poetry – a lament draped like a carpet,

Minds entwined, stitched by similar torment.

Poetry; an escape for like-minded souls,

In pursuit of the elusive, where it all unfolds.

A space to exist; to sit, run, or leap,

A work in progress, a beautiful creation –

Unanswered questions, raw and sincere,

Flowing through veins, a reminder we hold dear.

Untold remedies, brewing within,

A gentle push, rarely wrapped in sugar's skin.

Lines that rhyme, like birds in romance,

Seeking partners for an orchestrated dance.

The balance between existence and curiosity,

Lies here, in shared poetry…

"Let’s meet again on Sunday, shall we? Before Monday rolls in," my heart smiles, adorning my empty basket with the rolled parchment, neatly tied with pink ribbon.

"Yes, indeed," I return the smile. Let them operate on their terms while I jot down everything in-between. After all, I am a scribe.

The Analyst's Being

Sunday arrives.

I return to my mind with my heart. The doors are slightly ajar. I jog in excitement, catching my breath as my mind hands me a scroll, beaming as though awarding me a degree.

"Thanks for the encouragement, Heart," my mind winks.

I unroll the paper.

Seeking Enough

In a peak of capitalism, I toil and grind,

Yet deep within, I long for simplicity,

The freedom to choose; who, not how many;

To inspire from what unfolds; a privilege of the ordinary.

I yearn for the divine artistry to run wild,

Unshackled from the hustle, bathed in spiritual highs,

In hours spent diving deep and engaging in wise conversations,

My inkwell flows into meticulous craftsmanship.

Exorbitant is my dream, demanding currency;

Farewell to luxury and comfort’s embrace,

I yearn for enough; but where does the boundary lie,

Where romanticized ambition ends, and greed takes its place?

From the play of youth to the grind of adulthood,

Life’s lessons teach when to unwind,

With no buffer, it’s all-or-nothing,

Balance is an art the world has not taught us.

Writer's Note:

And that is the tale of how I persuaded my mind to embrace poetry. Poetry is a language that has been forgotten; it's more than just a generator of catchy Instagram captions. It is the lingua franca of the soul; perhaps now more than ever, it’s crucial to relearn how to communicate in this beautiful form.

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