my world exploded
not into a million little pieces
but into great shards of excitement, fear, pain, stress, disbelief, and love
and I find myself thinking:
has my luck ran out?
is this explosion the beginning of the end?
has the precarious balance of my life
or is this another awe-inducing moment
that lends itself to a happy ending
of a book that will never be written
but probably should?
Time no longer passes.
I use my time,
I experience my time,
I feel my time.
I might feel like I’m drowning.
but breaths I catch when I pull myself to the surface,
fill my lungs with the sweetest air
that I will ever taste.
I’m not living to write a book about my life.
but my thirst for experience is creating a life
that a book could be written about.
And I feel proud.