How you can be sure you’re alive

It’s the way you can see lightning through closed eyelids and how even quiet thunder resonates in your stomach. It’s the way the wind quickly changes its mind deciding in which direction it wants to run away, but it still holds your hand as you drive with the windows down. It’s the way you can ache for somebody and some body. It’s the way you can ache for a closeness that feels like claustrophobia. It’s way you can miss someone through your fingertips and the way you know what that means but can’t articulate it with any other words. It’s the way rivers and roads make more sense than heavens and hells and how you can cover your walls with CHANGE and never understand it well enough that it doesn’t catch you by surprise when it knocks the breath out of you. It’s the way you can talk about lofty things and not know a thing. It’s the way harmonicas seem to have something inherently sad about them and how Death Cab’s Plans album will always be the closest thing you’ll find to a time-travel machine. It’s the way you can be terrified of both growing old and never growing up. It’s the way you’d change everything about yourself if it meant it would change everything. And the way you can tell yourself over and over again that you are worth more than that shallowness, but all you really want is to be loved and feel certain. It’s the way you think you hold contradiction in the palm of your hand, with meaning loosely in the other. But really, contradiction swallows you whole. It’s the way some days feel like hours of treading water, and others feel like nothing more than pretending, like going through the motions. Even then, with the nothingness and the numbness, you can be sure.


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