Breathe

I’ve grown up hearing things about soulmates, how there’s a pefect match out there for everyone.

Because of this, if I believed in soulmates, I’d imagine souls to look sort of like a yin-yang symbol.

For every yin, there’s a yang and they fit together. The two halves are magnetized, there’s a pull, a tug, and you know, you just fucking know in your core that there’s something going on here.

You might not know how to deal with it. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you don’t. You’ll be scared; the fear and love scale converges. Extremes are more alike than you’d expect because radicalism is radicalism no matter if you’re a left-extremist or a right-extremist, and love? It’s radical.

You’ll wanna write it off as something else, as a fluke. Those butterflies were just butterflies, nothing more. But they weren’t. They were so much more than butterflies.

It was the tug of your heartstrings. Your soul is blind, and so is love, and your heart’s just the guide-dog Nurtured by your Nature describing the sunrise to you.

It’s the last dredges of your coffee, the final sip that tastes better than anything else. It’s the moment a dog finally catches its tail and the moment a squirrel finds the nut it hid away for winter oh so many years ago.

It feels like a cool autumn night spent wrapped in a too-old sweatshirt looking out at the stars from your favorite swing.

It smells like that one day you raced around the track and found the honeysuckle bush behind the dugout, saw the bees flitting from bud to bud, never noticing the hoard of children sitting quietly, watching, listening.

I can hear the piano’s haunting melody in the background and I’m looking at you, hearing you, and I know the sun’s rising on a new Day. I don’t have to see.

Have I ever told you that sight is my favorite sense? Without it, I’d be lost.

I wouldn’t be able to see the colors of the world. I’ve always had trouble with colors. Reds and oranges look a little too similar late at night, and white and black are the same aren’t they?

The presence of light is the lack of light in a different place.

The soul is blind; the yin and the yang are both black, both white.

You might not know how to deal with the way your head is tugged when she walks past you, or the way butterflies have evolved into whales swimming against the tide in churning, grey oceans. They have to come up for air sometime, but it’s dangerous. Storms are brewing. The guide-dog can’t see.

And you’ll breathe, you’ll be scared, but in that moment you’ll know.

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