I’ve always found comfort in the sight of my veins through my skin. While some may find this a morbid reminder of our own mortality I’ve thought of it as a reminder of my physical existence. I spend most of my time in my thoughts. Everything has its counterpart in my mind and I can, and have made entire universes in there for me to explore. Endless possibilities because I can create every possibility in there till they simultaneously collide and then split apart again. It would be so easy for me to stay, comfortable inside my fantasies so close to being real.
Then, I look down at my hands. I feel them, memorize them, and I slowly come back. I realize once again that I can’t do that- live in my own head because I would miss something. Something that in my infinitive landscape of thought I would never be able to mimic: being real.
Being here and now and present.

What connects you to the ground? What brings you back?


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