I am in a holed up space barely breathing. My limbs refuse to move and my hands they sit unused on my lap.
Staring at the ceiling there is nothing and no one and yet there is something intangible here.
There is breath in the room and something potent that I have yet to uncover. But I hope one day my hands move with the grace they were meant to, and my body begins to remember again what it feels like to run without weight on your back and to wake with shoulders that come down from their place under my ears.
Have I lived enough yet? I have tasted the sea and fallen in love and called someone home and lost them. I have wandered through the city in the middle of the night to try and make sense of everything to no avail. I have loved wholeheartedly, in ways I hope I never have to again.
My skin has been burned my bones have been broken, I have been cut and bruised and disregarded, I have been cherished and put on a pedestal so high that when it all came crashing down it hit me the hardest.
Yet I still feel I live in a box in the sky unable to touch anything around me. Unable to move or breathe or sink or swim or do much of anything except let my fingers fly, and hope they can do the escaping for me.