There are certain truths you can’t fathom, like why the caged bird sings or where the ducks go in the winter. But today, you take a leap of faith and take a step impulsively outside of your ivory door. Oh, that ivory door that sits like a brick wall between you and the world. A rush of wind hits your face, somewhat like how waves crash onto the pier every night at the sea. There is nothing you can’t do. Today, you can accomplish anything.


Twirling… twirling and swirling, you spin, spin, spin. Hands reached toward the sky, the world is moving at 1,038 miles per hour and yet you usually feel nothing. Right now, you beat the earth. You are the earth. Veins that lead into your body are trees, sprouting out, sprouting out of your hand; you are no longer made of epithelial tissue and melanin. You are the rainwater that is billions of years old, always recycling, always returning back to home. You are more than a mixture of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen. You are both nothing and everything.


And all at once, you laughed, and your laughter bounced off of walls and reflected towards the sun until it broke off and became a thousand fractured beams of sunlight and you thank the skies and kiss the ground for this serendipitous day. There are certain truths you can’t fathom, like why the caged bird sings or where the ducks go in the winter. But today, the world seemed lighter. Brighter. All because of you. And that revealed more truths than one could have ever hoped.