An urgent energy boils under my skin. I can’t quite place its origin, or its source. All I know is that there is urgency. Urgency to live.
It’s like in the anticipation of the passage of time I have preemptively become nostalgic for the present. Every mundane moment feels like one I must revel in, knowing one day I will inevitably wish I could return and embrace it like an old friend.
This anxious pressure builds within my capillaries and in between my bones, urging me to obsessively take note of every conversation, capture the mental image of each person that I am desperately fortunate to love, as if the moment I blink, everything around me could disappear.
