desperation lasts for only a measure

Why does the heart beat slow to those rhythms we never notice? And why does it quicken, draw our attention when we wish for time to stop? footsteps beat patiently across floors, though our paces grow restless, uneasy. where do those footsteps lead? and why can we not see their purpose? we can never know, i think, where we are meant to walk, but that abscence of knowledge still wounds, still saddens. and the heart, despite its yearnings, grows weary with every frantic, searching thought. things flicker to life from shadowy, unknown corners and we cry to soften their slow burn. we would seek to stop the endless, blazing fear that loneliness will take us. Why does the heart beat so strongly when it seems so weak? And how can we urge the nocturne which sounds in the deepest part of ourselves into a trilling, triumphant symphony? Ah, but such fanfare only makes the contrast of a longing heart sharper. What but a graceful sonata can warm us? Still, time cares little for the notes our hearts play. It listens only in fervent devotion to the endless beat of our footfalls, pacing itself to always outdistance us. For time sees all things and pulls us inexorably towards the fates we unwittingly choose. So where do we stand, heartbroken and weary? Where else but against the wind, the triumph of our lives tugging at our lips?