Sometimes it seems this wound might never heal. Sometimes it feels this pain could last an eternity and more.
Then other times, you find yourself barefoot and lounging in the bed of a rusted ’99 pickup truck, gazing at the infinite expanse of black, losing count of all the stars. There’s a warm breeze on your face, a pulse in your chest, a world at your fingertips.
It’s those quiet moments—strung together like beads of rain, prisms of light or fractals of snow—that remind you life isn’t over.
While your lungs still draw their treasured breath, while your heart still drums its velvet cadence, you realize there’s a purpose to the cosmos. You sense it’s not through random occurrence or chance encounter that you exist in one minuscule fissure of it all.
And then, you feel alive.