By the time you are reading this,
I am 32 years old.

A day of the year I too, have long feared
for many cycles around the sun.

But the tales of how I got to be
are for a different thread of thought.










For today,

Skylar Raine is born at 32 years old.










Today, a second journey begins.




The fool’s only one. 




Like every great super hero.




A story.










With a plottable origin

to

my














































descent.








An altitude and a height.
A wait and an appetite.

The hands that didn’t hold me
and the dust that clogged my airways.

What I thought was comfort and warmth,
safe, moonlit bonfires, scenes of innocence,
soon revealed itself like ropes around my neck 

- a chokehold.










My voice was detained.
My thinking was exiled.
What I had to say was of no concern.
The least surprising part.
All of that was nothing new.




I’d been running my mouth
my
whole
life.





They wondered how I knew so much.
How I always had an answer.
How I was born with the wisdom
that comes later in life, for most.





The truth is...
the mystery is...
the great secret is...



I have always been very aware.
I have always been very prepared.


Attentitive.



Towards the light.
For the darkness.





There is something within me that is so excited to be here.
I waited in my mother’s womb until the timing was right.
I’ve never needed a dramatic entrance, I just enjoy arriving.






But once the scene is set,


the characters have been cast


and the narrative has been put into place


- a grand opening


is the only means of


introduction.







Salutations, my dears.








Here we are again.









Hello.           

Hey.

                           Ciao.












My words are tumbling out of me.
I’ve been patiently waiting my turn.








Now, it’s time to enter







like a
disco ball.









Wrecking havoc.









Like I always do.







Aware. Prepared.
Attentitive.







Bursting
with aliveness.





I do believe it is my sense of
optimism that scares you most.





My undying love for being living,

against all odds







- that startles you most.












How could someone live so alive?








How could someone love despite despair?






And in spite of desperation?







How could someone be happy







without being loved?







How are you not -









- not saddened to your core?








How are you






not







paralyzed by the idea of dying







before you are loved?














The answer is that feeling all of the above
is how I know I’m still breathing.








The hundreds of tears I’ve cried
reassure me, I’m still here.






Heart.
Beating.

Head.
Aching.

Breathing.

Loving.











Beautiful catastrophe.



















You.









Me.









To keep living is to be alive.





To believe in it,


is beauty.








The



Knowing.
Sensations.
Skin.
Body.
Mind.
Truth.
Lies.
Good.
Bad.
Morals.
Balance.







Afterall,



It is our flaws that differentiate 
us from the perfection of nature.




What splits a heart open.







Builds one from a seed
of their own gardening.








So beautifully flawed,
humming birds feel small.








I am.








Oh.



The easiest thing
would be
to wish
upon a flower
and ask god
to come back
as

a






                          spider.

















🕷️                    


























                      🐿️
Or a squirrel.






















A dolphin,



if you like aquatics.








🐬
























But

then you’d miss

the complexities

of being human.



You wouldn’t contain multitudes.









Limiting potential.











Cerebrally,






linear.










Steady pace,


                                        no wobbles.










Are you starting to see the picture I’m painting?

The world I’ve been dreaming?

Is putting pen to my imagination








making

you


think








bigger?















Good.



















Let’s go back to a year ago.






























Back before the cocoon,
my honeymoon.




🌙                                         



       

                                       🦋












You know,





caterpillars need rest.




2

o           

💎

Oh, a year ago doesn’t matter now.