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I’m carrying the weight of the world within me, within my soul, within my heart. That’s what was whispered on the wind, along with countless other small murmurs and muted cries.

A pregnant silence. Can you hear it? Heavy, so heavy, a beautiful weight that bears so much within it; that carries the whole emptiness of nothing, the fullness of being.

I can tell she is full. Full to the brim of ideas, of words, of stories and poems that are just aching to be let out, to be laid out, so that they can lie across a page of endless lines, swaying in the motion of her hips, as they move to the rhythm of her heart.

Back, forth, the rhythm continues...

When someone tips the balance, she overflows, pours out in a river of seemingly eternal poetry and verse, singing out her love for the world, her worries, her angst, the fears that she keeps her chest full of, the callus she has danced onto her feet, the dreams that pack her mind.

She is human. I am human. We are human.

We are full. We are full of love, we are full of hate. We contain endless depths of compassion, but we all have a source of cruelty. We own passion, we have apathy too. We have despair, but we are human, and so we are full, and hope is only one of the streams that feeds us.

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