I have this itchy, tickling feeling inside. I want to wiggle and stretch and yawn my way out of my own skin. I want to rip free from my withering body. I want to fly.
Twenty two years is a long time. I should know more than I do. I sit, blinking widely at this screen, wondering if I will ever do what I've thought of for so long... play, pray, sing, change, climb, dance. Live. Love. Be.
Sometimes I feel so young. Small. New.
Today, I am old. Broken. Crazed. Wild and waiting for the next great love to take me away from myself.
My heart is a tiny thing, like a "speck of dust in a giant's eye." It is fragile and, as if to prove my words, damaged beyond human repair. I think I can risk more of it and share more of it and show more of it. I think I should. It might be good, for me and for everyone.
I'll try, for the sake of that inner tickling, that divine poke I feel, right between my ribs. Maybe I'll fall, but maybe instead, I might just shine.
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