Sometimes I think and I think and I think.
Sometimes I intertwine my fingers, press them against each other with all my might and feel for my heart beating where their mutual force meets at a zero.
Sometimes I bite my lip so strongly I can peel a bit of it away and taste the meat underneath — but not blood. I don’t bite strong enough. I don’t ever bite strong enough.
Sometimes I punch my thigh out of anger, but only when no one is looking and it’s the middle of the night — I don’t want to cause unnecessary drama.
Sometimes I wish I did. I picture it in my mind, I imagine myself sulking, pouting, shouting, crying, standing up for myself.
Sometimes I imagine this for hours, until I fall asleep.
Sometimes I close my eyes as I sit in a moving car and I let the sun fall on my face just to find myself in a shadow the very next second, obstructed by buildings, waiting for another ray of sunlight, another connection without obstacles in the way, another golden flickering on my eyelids. Another fleeting proof that I am, indeed, alive.
Sometimes I feel my body so poignantly that I want to cry. My existence is present in every pore, every breath, every interaction with the outside world, every thought in my own head. Everything I create is life.
Everything I am is life.
Sometimes I cry because I am terrified that when I lose my life, when my body becomes nothing but a piece of earth buried deep down without any sunlight dancing on my eyelids, I will lose myself, too.
Existing is painful, yet it’s still too wonderful to not feel heavy at the idea that I might — I will — stop being it one day.
And so life moves on.