When your heart is constantly beating like a slow drum solo, it feels like the warm blood is rushing in your veins, burning the thick walls, when it's finally beating fast enough that you are considered alive.
When the lump that's just above your vocal cord finally evaporate into a rushed exhale, it feels foreign for your breathe to reach your begging lungs, expanding them in your folded body, making you feel reborn.
When the vibration of the words that played with the strings of your voice for years finally claw their way up your throat, so powerfully it unties all the knots you made on your tongue and projectiles into the air. The sound of your voice rushing into your ear is like a melody from a long lost record - nostalgic, no matter how much it may cracks and rewinds.
And the exhilaration that follows the rush of adrenaline when the inspiration greases the rusty joints of your hands, making the letters flow out of the pen tip like a great dam, breaking into halves and thirds and quarters, creating grooves into the papers with its powerful torrents. Content to gleam motionless in those dents before the papers soak the ink to its cores.
And the surge of happiness when your brain miraculously wills the muscles of your face and arms to functions, so you push off the bitter air that seemed to find home in wrappings itself around your huddled body, painting it in shades of blue, denying your ears all the songs your heart sang - sad and happy. And the corner of your lips finally points north, defying the all mighty gravity, teasing your cheeks, promising your eyes that one day, one day they will reach them and show them how beautiful life is - sadness and all.
When you finally untuck your self and fill every space under the fibers of your skin and look at the mirror and see you. Beautiful. scared or scarless, laughing or frowning. And your open those arms, rusty at the joints with fingertips tattooed with ink that promises to never fade and welcome confidence like a long lost child you are willing to get to know again, throughout sleepless nights, tear streaked cheeks and twitching lips.
And when this all happen, maybe then I will be able to compose galaxies dotted with poetry, music, art, words without my tears smearing them into an unrecognizable mess of blues, for they are just aren't good enough.
