IV.

I love the fresh rush of rebirth in my veins when I pour water down my throat and it rains into the open sea that is my stomach. Maybe the butterflies can swim, but I’ve learnt that they also migrate to the brain and give migraines that spread and pulse and barely touch the insides of the ribcage, that spread and throb and eventually clot all within the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

And I’ve learnt that the most violent of thoughts is that that starts in the head like a cell and descends slowly and smoothly to the heart. Lethally cancerously and quietly, a thought reaches way farther than its destination.

Sometimes I am so disconnected from the world. It feels like life is a boring movie I’m only watching out of curiosity of what is going to happen next. Some other times I am one with Earth: air, ground, trees. I can hear the roots digging through soil. And I coil into myself and swear to God I love it so much. Even if always faltering between two opposite emotions leaves me exhausted and begging for silence and the mere bliss of rest.

And I love my body. I love how in control I am of my body even if my fingers linger to move to their own accord when I’m nervous and I can’t afford to be nervous above the surface of my clothes.

I control my body the way I would want to command my thoughts to retreat to their base in the back of my mind. This war isn’t theirs to fight. This war is mine. And it won’t stop until a truce is conducted to lay down the tension between the head and the heart. It won’t stop until my head and my heart decide to condense the area of condescension between them to null.