You Feel It

It's a curious thing, being alive—you feel it.

You feel the aliveness even in decay, in aches and pains.
You know life when the wind whispers in your ear,
and when the sun runs its fingers down your cheek.
And you feel alive when the wind is stiff, tries to tip you off a cliff,
when the sun burns your skin red and stains you with pain.

You feel the aliveness in beauty, in the ecstasy and the ache.
When music courses through your body to the gas pedal,
and when it courses down your face in briny drops.
When the sunset and the stars sing a symphony,
and when the storm clouds rage against your pane.

You feel the aliveness in the fear, propelling and suspending.
When terror races through your veins, pumping your legs,
and when it stings like ice, freezing your flight, your mind.
When you're so close to trepidation you can taste it,
you find that you feel frighteningly alive, alive, alive.

You feel the aliveness in hope, in its shock and comfort.
Someone offers a hug, a kind word, an unexpected gift,
and it jars your heart, opens eyes wide in surprise as they cry.
How can something so soothing still stun your soul?
See—impetuous generosity can change your life.

It's a haunting thing, being alive—you feel it.