Being alive

Being alive is the strangest feeling. It’s a fever 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 strech 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 ballloon rising towards the moon. Sometimes like July tumbling in with sunshine and hurricanes, other times like spilled ink across paper oceans — sprinkling startust from my veins.