Some days, I feel more two-dimensional than alive. Like the characters in the books I read have more air in their lungs than me. I forget that my mood is completely dependent on how the waves are crashing amongst the grains of sand over 1,000 miles away and how that crashing is completely dependent on the moon in the sky. I forget I am a work of art, covered in freckles of all shapes and sizes, bruises, paper cuts, and black ink, each with its own character and story.
Some days I feel like a painting, pressed against a wooden frame and hung up for some to glance, some to ignore, and only a rare few to stop, look, learn, and really appreciate. I forget that there is magic flowing through my veins, that no other individual on this planet has experienced the emotions that make my heart beat in the same ways that I have. I forget that there are literal sparks happening amongst the synapses of the memories of my brain.
Some days, I feel like a victim of circumstance- a bystander to all the tragedy, hate, ugly that exists in this world. And other days, I remember that I am only particles of dust, breaths of oxygen, and a sea of water held together by fragile, pale skin. Three-dimensional and awake.