To Holler or Squeal

I find it incredible that there is anything at all. That the world moves without my moving it, and wobbles without my poking. 

Is it better to holler or squeal with delight when you feel the tightrope trembling beneath your feet? The fine line between breathing and being breathed.

I marvel at the arbitrariness of it all – the lack of authority I have over the churn of my metabolism or the labour of my large intestine… and yet, how easily I can twitch any of my fingers, whenever I like. 

There’s an insatiable appetite for life that’s boiling, bubbling, and bouncing inside me. Like a parasite, but fuzzy and well-intentioned. And it’s tickled when it finds itself.  

I want to make things. I want to explore and breathe life into ideas with friends, my little brother, and people I don’t yet know exist. 

I’m grateful that there are pigeons on the railing outside while I eat breakfast. They always look like they have absolutely no clue what they’re doing. But they’re the ones who can fly.

I’m relieved to bear not even a shred of responsibility for ensuring that spring arrives on time. It leaves space for so many other things. 

This is it.