The brain and the heart are 73% water.
The lungs are 83.
What we think, what we feel are fluid. Rippling.
The same thing that pumps our chest steals our air.
We are capable of anything.
The human body is made of the same matter
That nurtures life.
That crushes cities.
We are capable.
What kind of storm are you?
This is not for others.
This is not to keep them comfortable.
This is for you.
Your heat is how you know you’re alive.
I wish I could say things will be different now, but I’m impatient. I want what I want and it’s not easy. It takes all of me. I’ve sat two decades under damp soil. I’m impatient.
You should have more by now. Have more and want less. Want normal. Want peace. Keep still and learn to float. Make them proud. The ones that are here and the ones that you’ve lost. You’re learning to manage. You’ve fallen apart.
And you’ve built worlds. And you’ve lost hope. And you’ve spoken things to life, and you’ve laid a lot to rest. Are you smarter now? What have you learned? Have you learned?
Love when you feel it so you don’t regret it again. Let him go. Love. Love what you do, love who you’ve been. Remember that you’re alive and that’s something.
Are you different now? Do you feel any different?
Do you remember when it became too much? When you sat across from me and I told you I had welded a key meant for unlocking worlds. I told you there was a place for you. That it was built for you. But not just you, and not just me. It was bigger. Do you remember?
And your hands began to melt all over the table. You reached for your glass but it slid right through. I cut my finger picking up the pieces. You lost your nerve trying to put it back together.
I shouldn’t have to apologize for starting a fire. We’re just atoms, we’re supposed to change state in heat. Vibrate faster, expand, become air. You’re going against your nature.
I can’t wait for you to grow.
I’d made a habit of telling you what hurt. I always had a new problem for you that needed solving. A fresh catastrophe from which I needed rescuing. I think it gave you something to spend your time on. I think it gave you some use.
But then I found a thing I needed more than water. Afraid to die of thirst, I’d take too much and lose my air. I’d come back for you to drain me dry and squeeze me out and press me flat. Still, I’d plunge back in to soak it up, and you’d be there on the shore to watch it end.
I could’ve done with a little faith in your encouragement. Maybe my drowning made you feel justified in never bothering to swim. But in drifting this way, I’ve lost sight of the shore and I’m filled to the brim and I’ve learned how to float.
So now that I don’t need saving, tell me, what will you do with your day?