Like seaweed in an Atlantic riptide, the hairs on my arms rise and fall, rise and fall.
They claim it my epidermis, yet is it not a canvas to be adorned with this thing called life.
Tired eyes still see. Tired minds still work. I am tired, yet still I feel. If I feel, I live.
The carpet tickles my bare toes with the luxurious comforts this cave does not deserve.
Keratin, so tough as to cheat death; it sits at all extremities pulling at the rest of me. It aches.
A bird squawks or sings or cries or stifles a scream. I hear it but fail to understand. I wish to, but I can’t.
The moon makes silver and the sun makes gold, I’m enriched by celestial gifts. How lucky I am.
I roll paper into a ball, judge the distance, draw on experience and toss it in the bin. A miracle!
I am cold. I am hot. I am lonely. I am melancholy, but feel only mildly bothered. I am. I am. I.
This quality of being, this life, offers no explanations, no laws. I am lawless, yet, I am. A being who’ll soon have been.