there is another life beyond this one, i’m sure of it — in which the floor i step on after i first get out of bed doesn’t feel so menacing, in which doors are built much lighter and easier to open, in which the roses don’t wilt as quickly, and in which it doesn’t hurt so much when their petals fall, because i know without a doubt that new, brighter ones will be taking their place.

i lie in bed and dream of that life far more than i’d care to admit. i use it as a barrier between myself and the floor that intimidates me so. i use the strength of my desire to live it to open all of the heavy doors i encounter during my days that taste so mundane in comparison to the vanilla-and-honey world i’ve promised the weaker parts of myself, lest they hold on just a bit longer. i steal roses from other people’s gardens and bring them home with me to keep as mementos, as reminders that there are so many stories being told beside my own, and that i’m welcome to take hold of the pen from the flow i’ve always gone with and start writing this life for myself.