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The twisting vines of our worries growing like trees in the jungle of our veins; the oceans we cry, waves crashing in our blood; this is how we distinguish ourselves. Who knows if we had any lines at all till we traced ourselves apart with octopus ink of the eighth stage of grief. We care in crossed out love letters, crumpled and tossed away. We care in the scars we wrestle onto our own goddamn wrists. We care in our creations and we care in the way we destroy. When our eyes crumble the days into grey sand and every second weighs a ton we find it hard to see as a gift. But our blood pumps for something, our lungs breath for something, we notice, we care. Its only a gift if we use it as one. If we lose ourselves in it, it will will seep into our feathers, it will drag us down. It can so easily drag us down. Pushing our shoulders deep under. But we care, and although it is a heavy burden we bear it because it is also a greatest gift we have.

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