My Hands,

Stretch skyward from my arms

So i can reach the next rung on that old rope ladder

And my feet, dangle in the air,

Just above all of this Earth-matter


I try desperately to reach the top of the treehouse

And onto its dusty plywood planks, rotted throughout

And as my hand reaches further, grasping for the next rung..


Nothing.


Wait, what do I mean nothing? Surely i was creating an intriguing story, luring in to, grab your attention, so why stop now?


Does it matter? The Matter we are made of? Are we made? Are we...real?


Can I really know what that threaded rope feels like as i clutch in my hands

Or can i explain to you in vivid detail how the old oak tree smelled rustic and earthen


Was that all real? Did i make it up? Are we just a figmentation of a collective imagination?


Woah, Too deep.


See, I don’t agree with it.


I define my reality as moments where i question if it is.


For example, The first time I rode my shiny new bike down our old country street, in which i immediately hit a tree.


Or my very first kiss with a girl that wasn’t my mom, its awkwardness and romanticism somehow shown through a dimly lit row of crowded movie theater seats.


Maybe my last hug with my dad, before he passed away, and how i couldn't feel his life when i said goodbye to him the next day.  


Moments like these… make me question everything. Whether or not Fate exists and if I remembered to check my breath before leaning in


I think, therefore i am. But it's more than that.


I feel, and i taste and i touch and i am aware.

Aware of the pain of grief, the joy of kindness, the thankfulness of understanding.


I am aware that no one person is the same and that everyone's story is worth telling, that every letter i type is a new permutation or combination that may have never been said before, in a way that has never been told.


I am aware that i can feel infinite while simultaneously feeling infinitesimal, and that my boredom is one of the most fascinating things on this planet.


So even if this isn't real, that my words aren't my own, that all of this, is just… nothing.


I feel unique, and different, and no amount of science will take away the mystery of my spirit.