I think a lot about how intricately the human body is designed—about how none of this is accidental and even the flutter of my heart when it beats cacophonous and out of tune has a purpose in the grand scheme of things, in the blessed Big Picture. I have bradycardia which means my heart beats too slow which means that I am going to die someday maybe sooner than later and the doctors can’t seem to figure out why which means that I am going to die someday maybe sooner than later which means that I have to live while I’m living. Eventually I will meet the one who designed these patterns and I will have to thank Them for it. For making my pulse irregular, for unravelling me further into destiny with each word in each of my run-on sentences, for making the human body so fallible. That’s not a very popular opinion but I always try to find beauty in the spiral of things I don’t understand, like why the world is spinning off into some unrecognizable state of ultimate chaos or why it had to happen back then or why I didn’t go through with it when I said I was going to, and if I go off on a tangent and gaze into my own reflection when it forms in the puddles of my words, shut up, I’m still trying to find the beauty in it. If my body functioned in perfect patterns I wouldn’t have anything to complain about and we all need something to grate against. I think a lot about how the heart beats without thinking—I’m not behind the scenes puppeteering it with my hand lodged deep inside, I’m not screaming from the sidelines beat, heart, beat! like some eager middle school cheerleader, it continues beating on its own, even when it shouldn’t, even when it knows better. Except in my case, but in my case even my heart knows there’s no saving me. That’s not a very popular opinion either. I think a lot about how it’s all the same—my inconsistent pulse, the blinding contrast of my desires, the parts of me that didn’t cook right on the inside. It’s all on purpose, it’s all entwined, and I’m going to die eventually. That’s what always happens, the first pattern, what we were all designed to do. Underneath my bedroom door the light peeks through, like blood rushing out of a holy wound. I think sometimes maybe I’m too introspective.
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