Advil Doesn't Make Me Alive

Every morning I make an iced coffee, maybe two. I take two Advil and butter a piece of toast. I leave my home with the aroma of fresh coffee beans lingering in the air and the warmth of the dog laying atop the carpet. I pretend I’m in love with the idea of being alive. I make a point not to stare at the knives sitting on the counter top by the stove. I think about what it would feel like if the head of my car were crumpled against the rough exterior of another. I carry on with my day. My life is not composed of grand gestures or momentous episodes of happiness but I am here, and I exist. My existence is merely enough. The trivial nature of the human experience, of the ability to feel who we are and who we become is enough. What odd little lives we live. Lives of heartbreak and joy, of desperation and relaxation. But at least we are doing it together.
You wake up each morning and go for a run. Your lungs are burning and your legs are wobbly but you push yourself further anyways, You take a shower and use 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner to save yourself the time. You make eggs and bacon and wrap them in a tortilla with a dash of Tabasco hot sauce and half of an avocado. You drive to work with the windows down and the radio off. You exist, but that is not enough. Your existence is not life. Existence lies in the realm of numbness. But you will feel so alive again, so incredibly alive. I don’t know when that will be but it will be. You are going to feel so alive that your cheeks hurt from smiling and your throat burns from laughter. One day you will walk outside and the snow will be falling and the quiet of the world will allow you to surround yourself in its beauty. You have crinkles around your eyes and creases in your forehead from the years of happy days in the sun. You look beautiful. Your eyes gaze into the world with wonder and shine with the reflection of its rarity. You exist, and that is enough. You are alive. You are beautiful.