Friday, September 19, 2014

Paradoxical Breathing

Dear Lungs,
I don't know how many ribs have become cross with life, how many gasps you've struggled ever since, or how many recruitments have turned out to be corrupted. I hate to be a spectator of my own pain, standing like a street pole rooted in the same ground where things have fallen, where it continues to stand up tall and erect. But it's very important that I find the right numbers so that when you look back someday to find out what had happened, I won't have to give you a file with a vague story and you won't have to entertain a possibility that may be you made it because of me. You'll have made it because of you. It's important that my pieces learn what they're capable of going through, all on their own. That way, every time we're scattered about, which is more often than not, we won't be lost without each other. And we can always compare notes, later.
Out on a mission,
Me.

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