Q

Recently i’ve been catching myself holding a breath.

“Oh. I need to exhale,” i’d think – and then do so. As if my lungs were a new, foreign installation i’ve yet to grasp. In a way though, they are. A friend of mine, with whom i share a common enthusiasm for blue-spot-activating facts, once told me our cells regenerate in such a way that – at some point – we’re essentially a different person than before.

Our lungs have a life cycle of 3 weeks; i am currently sporting a brand new respiratory control station.

Why was this a surprise though? I’ve been so changed by years – broken and mended, stretched and shrunk – it’s quite bizarre a belief that i’d be as before.

“You used to be so crazy!” There are parts of that self i miss: the effervescence, the unceasing energy. Now i’m prematurely aching bones and half-caf coffee for early nights.

At the same time, i think about the journey here. There were bumps in the road but i wouldn’t change anything, except perhaps invest in some Google stocks and .coms.

“You’re at a good place,” a close friend recently remarked. I don’t think she meant it the way i took it, but it was very reassuring.