from my january journal

I wonder if I live in a pretty casket

what flowers are brought to my frequently visited grave

what outfit they dressed me up in before they lowered me into the ground

I wonder if one day while I'm not even searching for it

I'll find a headstone with my name on it

and everything I've ever thought will finally make sense

there is no way I'm truly alive

to be alive is to experience but I've been a mere passenger in every adventure I've ever embarked on

I've been the background character in every story I've written and the supporting role in the number of plays this life has cast me in

what is it to feel dead but be alive

what is it to prick your finger and expect nothing but rot to ooze out but instead be greeted by rust colored pain

what is it to live in 3rd person, to be just plain existing

to be stuck in the space that isn't breathing but isn't breathless

who am I to write a will when all of my assets have never belong to me

I wonder if I live in a pretty casket or a handcrafted urn

I wonder where my body was laid to rest where the soul that I harbor escaped from

there is no real way that I could truly be alive and feel like this

there was no real way that this is truly what life is

I am not blind to the beauty of the blossoming lives around me

I am no stranger to the greening fields and the sprouting leaves

but I will never feel them the way I wish too

because somewhere at some point I was laid to rest

and somewhere at some point I decided I wasn't ready to give up yet

and somewhere at some point I became what I am now

somewhere between breathing and breathless