When i tell you I am alive, it does not mean what you think. Or maybe it does. But let me try and explain to you why that is the most befitting answer to your question.
I am alive. Bare minimum you say? You can only say that when you haven’t been in my shoes. Or rather, in my mind. I’ve died many times in this life. And just like in real life situations, in all those times I never saw it coming. Death crept into my soul when I was looking the other way.
It seeped into my days when I woke up and took white tea instead of black. It followed me when I dressed and chose what I could find. It got into my steps and made me tired after every few steps. Yet I never saw it coming. Nor felt it taking up space in me.
But I saw it. When it has made a home out of me already. I saw it in my nails that are overgrown and untidy. I saw it in my reluctance to read my favorite authors. I saw it in the way I spend money. Until finally I became it.
So when I tell you I am alive, its an achievement. Its an accomplishment. Its a break of my world record. Because it means I’m looking death in the eye and inviting him to a duel. it means for the umpteenth time in this life, I’m rising from the ashes. That I’m leaving the graveyard.
When I tell you I am alive, know that that’s all that matters now. And that’s enough. To breath in the cold crisp air of this forest, to walk alone amid trees that have stood the test of time and to allow my thoughts to flow through me.
It means I’m resetting the button for the a thousandth time. Knowing that this time too death shall come. It shall creep in when I’m watching things I don’t even like, it shall slither in during conversations that touch the unhealed places in me, it shall announce itself once again, once it has a home in me. And I shall rise once again from its grip.
Maybe that is my portion in life.
So when I tell you I am alive, imagine a new born, being coerced to come out of her mother’s womb. That child who knows that this world is no one’s mother. And even if it is, sometimes mothers break their children’s hearts. But the child comes out anyway.
I am not asking you to start a bonfire to celebrate my rebirth. That would be lovely, but some things require solitude. I am asking you to keep your eyes open, your inner heart eyes that is, and behold my glory.
For I am. And that is the greatest honor of being alive.