Every now and then, when my anxiety takes me down the road of what would happen if I somehow lost everything, I remember that I am alive and I am free, even if my mind often makes me feel like I’m not. I get to eat really lovely food if I let myself. I can travel if I want to, even if it’s two blocks away. I could go to the botanical gardens nearby and it’s so peaceful and so pretty. I could dress up in some wigs and costumes if I wanted. I could sing at the top of my lungs or play one of my instruments. I’m alone, perhaps, sure, yes, but I’m here. I’m still fucking here.
