yesterday,
steel met steel,
and i lived.
the sound was thunder —
then stillness.
my breath returned
like a shy child
unsure if it’s safe to come out again.
they call it survival.
i call it grace.
this summer,
ketamine cracked open
a door i thought was sealed forever.
colors bled back into the world.
the dark finally had edges.
i saw my wife’s eyes
like sunrise through fog.
i heard my boys laughing
and didn’t flinch.
i tasted coffee,
not just swallowed it.
depression once whispered,
“nothing matters.”
now i whisper back,
“everything does.”
every raindrop.
every hand i hold.
every “i love you”
said and unsaid.
gratitude is not a mood.
it’s a pulse.
it’s breath against the odds.
it’s saying yes
to this fragile, blazing, borrowed life —
again and again and again.
and i lived.
