I’ve come to the realization that the plot of my life does not make sense to me anymore.
Some days, my mind is like a black hole — full of questions. They echo off the inside of my skull, but never seem to fall quiet. What am I doing? Slowly, the question is answered. Not by the brain in my head but by the ghost curled around my ribcage. It whispers that I should crawl back into its arms; that I have made the wrong choice and that I will never be happy this way.
And I always find myself listening.
When something that has lived in the deepest crevices of your chest for as long as you can remember, tells you something that it’s next to impossible to stop your ear drums from vibrating with the sound of the words.
When my past speaks to me this way, I need to remember that what I had before was not living. It was dragging my body to the ground, like a house engulfed in flames — destroying itself from the inside out. I was not living, I was digging my own grave and encasing myself in a coffin of bones, clothed by all my lost hopes and dreams.
When my past speaks to me this way, I need to remember that I am more than a skeleton. My skeleton is a house for my soul and the life I contain should be visible over my bones. I need to remember that I am more than scars. They are not the roadmap that indicates where I am going. They are solely the stories of where I have been.
When my past speaks to me this way, I need to remember what it’s like to feel. Even when the downs are cliffs, and the up hills are mountains. Emotions will always be better than emptiness. I need to remember how it feels to accomplish something that does not have to do with numbers, so I can stop defining myself in digits, and start defining myself by who I am.
When my past speaks to me this way, I need to remember that my life could be everything I ever dreamed of, because my dreams no longer need to be locked inside a coffin. I need to remember what my future can hold; that my life could be the adventure of a lifetime… if I let it be.