Being Alive
Being alive is the strangest feeling. It’s a fever so high and as hot as midnight sun. And so low and as cold as ice—you wonder how your heart beats and feels so numb. I’m still learning how to breathe in this world: with ocean eyes and smoky lungs. A universe within a universe born out of the darkness and thrust into the light. I am all in. I am the keeper of a brave, bloodied and bruised heart. Always in the process of coming together, falling in love or falling apart. I exhale — lay my troubles on the ground and forget the world—and stretch out a moment of surrender in this process through the blue. This messy, beautiful blue thing. I am in progress; sometimes like a leaf falling from a tree, sometimes like a rogue balloon rising towards the moon. Sometimes like July tumbling in with sunshine and hurricanes, other times like spilled ink across paper oceans — sprinkling stardust from my veins.
