talk to me, girl

a thousand and one Bostonian nights
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What does being alive feel like?

Is it the slight shake of every breath I take, the spirals of cigarette smoke inhaled that permeate the air and linger in my hair as I walk down the streets of Boston?

Is it the awareness of my pumping heart that keeps my vitals going as my body lies so still?

I can imagine a cold wind stinging my eyes. My feet feel so grounded with the rocks solid beneath them, but my head feels light in the clouds. It’s the jump I’ve been waiting for. I could realize the entirety of my mortality at nature’s heights, grin maniacally, breathe in, and fall. The world blurs around me; it’s beautiful. 

It’s that moment when everyone falls asleep. The house is dark and silent, but the moon outside is so bright — so bright, that it clearly illuminates the driveway and turns the shrub’s leaves silver. A car rushes past the house and fades into the distance. I can smell the chill outside. The collar of my denim jacket is rough against my neck, the metal buttons press against my chest as I hoist my leg over the window pane. My body tenses, muscles poised above the ground. Five toes touch the cement. I can’t stop the exhilarated smile that breaks my face in half as I run barefoot onto the street. 

It’s to feel winter on my cheeks and smell a subtle fireplace wood smoke in the air. Tiny yellow lights glow in green bough cradles. My hands are warm in my pockets, and I slowly walk back to a place I call home. 

Wonder, hope, and excitement. Inspire me.