Its these times between hours when I’m most uncomfortable with myself I find inspiration, when I’m crawling out of my skin. I look at the trees, the stars, your hand, the floor to escape the hurricane in my mind. These inbetween hours wreck havoc and tear the books from the shelves. Life is soft and hard, romantic and cruel and you mourn every moment unfulfilled. Your flash backing and forward, you could cry but you tell yourself to go to sleep but then the list falls on you again when you awake, and you forget your secret thoughts between yourself until that next morning comes. Those hours hurt, your chest tight, your teeth clenched. Your dose on life is too strong, too beautiful and fractured. Nothing is real because nothing is real, we are the sun, on fire feeling the world revolve around us.
I forgot that feeling, of breathing through my being, absorbing the rain and the reflection of lights. Running feels primal as my heart races and my thoughts pass me in slow motion. The landscape of time bends askew, the senses heighten and I’m making the rules. Am I running towards something or running away. The ever changing destination frays me but I remember why I love being alive.