i feel, greatly, the vibrations of my mortality, and along with it is some kind of fear i couldn't name; it ripples through my ribcage like some sort of internal chaos i have catalyzed without further thought. i haven't kissed the world enough, so lost am i in a universe i created inside my head, so lost in the purple skies and the violent delights coiling like vipers upon every atom of it. truly, i haven't kissed the world enough— that which sits real, that which revolves, that which i can touch and hear: the countertops and the fabric, the music, the chirping, the laughter of children, the light seeping through thin, white blinds. i am so fond of daydreams, so high up in the attics of my own little castle that when i woke i found it hard to come back down, and for that i am terribly sorry. i haven't kissed the world enough, and this mortality, this, this rotting, this deathless thing that is birthed with me, it tells me i don't have enough to make up for a time lost. i have come to terms with this truth.
