Everything. And Nothing.

Feelings.
The name of the two feet upon which I stand
And have built me up,
Piercing the horizon with the sharp edge of their confidence.

The ground is a veil. Thin. And it quivers like an old rickety gate.
But my heels are carved into the ground.

Looking up, the skies part to reveal the moon.
I’ve been following it, unblinking. Looking for something.
Anything.

Everything, yet nothing is uncertain.

It was everything. And it was nothing

I haven’t accepted that what I want everything to be
Can’t be anything but what it is.

My story,
My conscience,
My actions.

My words.

My heart.

Why I haven’t I owned up to the power
emanating from my palms like fire. My body. It is always on fire.
As I burn, the whole universe starts to sit and watch awestruck.

The road bends and turns into itself
And all that is left is you. It’s always you.
But my body is tossed into the meandering rivers,
veering me off course yet again.

Gasping for breath, cold shivers rack my spine
In a strict pattern, always on beat. Neverending. Always pounding.
Coughs echo in the thick of the ocean.

But the sole thought circling my inner ear
Tickling my brain,
Is that it’s a beautiful day to be alive.

But still I fall tens of times over in tears
Curled up in on my bed. Drowning in my pillows.

Yet, I am still fortunate to feel this sadness
And this pain
and endure another day of more.

More of everything. More of nothing.

It was real.
I felt the deepest of sensations because
Only in those moments, I felt everything.

I can tell myself that I lived
Despite the sword hugging my insides.

I can shout back to the darkness
And ask her to embrace me.
Thank her for the pathways she failed to leave
To see without the light.

I can speak. I can scream.
And take in deep breaths
Without choking on the words.

It’s a beautiful day to be alive… or sad.
Or mad, or bored or empty, or lonely, or happy, or loved.

Or everything. Or nothing.
Because I can feel and that is a gift.
To merely exist and see the world shift.

Life is beautiful in its imperfections and never-ending tastes
And the uncertainty of our mere existence is by far the best part.

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