Exhale. I’m not particularly good at exhaling. I spin around in circles all day and I find myself in the same place where I started.
I have OCD. And my tick is breathing. I’m medicated for my breathing. I take huge gulps of air in a precise pattern, at precise times, while leaving a place and entering a place. For this, I am medicated. Medicated because I cannot tell the truth.
I look into a child’s eyes and I see the truth. I’ve never admitted it, but I know precisely the reason. It is not chaos. It is a feeble attempt to capsulize a moment. To find a mortal immortality. To freeze time. Inhaling all the particles that make up a moment and for a brief fraction of time, I exist solely in that moment before the air leaves my body. I breathe pieces of the world into my body. My breaths come in deep and yearning, catching the world in an
infallible trap, gulping in moments without reserve. There is a
reservoir of air within me, documenting a life without blinking.
Gambling with control, I breathe in revolution. I breathe in
revelation. I breathe in recycled life.
And while it may be a coping device, for the steady and indestructible wheel of time, it may not always be the answer. An exhale must come at some time.
I feel my eyes well up with tears as I recognize the Wendy in myself dominating the Peter in myself. I don’t want to be as ready as I am. But I am. And I’m in Neverland. I’ve sat on top of the stars. I’ve seen the cloudless sky. I nestled inside of a blue sapphire and watched my soul float in and out. And I’m ready to grow up. Out of nothing but faith. Faith that childhood never truly ends. Find the dividing moment between childhood and not and let me whisper secrets into that eternity. Neverland is a state of mind. What I feel no words can touch. You do believe you just don’t know it yet. Back to the start. Evolution. I breathe in and I exhale.
Neverland tapped at my door in the middle of the night and begged for one more breath. The clock on the wall climbed above the rafters and dissolved. And in this silence there is no word, only an abstract feeling that one day you will not remember this day. Grasping at the world’s embers with putty hands…and the colors that dot the horizon…they lead me home.