I tap my feet, I tap my fingers. I nod my head, I hum a tune. Today is just an average day. But oh how unattainable “just average” seemed but a year ago. So I swirl around the whisky in my glass, I ride on an average train, but in first class. From the depths of despair, it’s hard to just get up for air. But once you’re there, once you’re there, you’re acutely aware that fresh air is not a given, much less so for you. So you cherish each breath and start each day anew. You let the groove of the drum dictate the way you will go, but it’s okay because you are the composer and you just want to show the world that your rhythm is just as good as anyone else’s: true. You want to show the whole world that they can rely on you. Because the bass line keeps you steady while your lips barely move and yet you go all the way and put a tune on that groove. What starts out as a murmur becomes a full-fledged song. And you know those who lack rhythm have got it all wrong. Because it’s your life. It’s your strife. You’re headstrong. And you know exactly where you belong.

On that line, on that beat, on that tapping of your feet. They push your face into a bucket of ice, so you bring back the heat. You let a lack of serotonin control your every move for far too long. Now it’s you that decides again. You are here, you are strong. And you only stop to sleep. And sleep only so you can wake up and tap your feet. It’s easier to perform a virtuoso solo when the beat is clear. So around the corner, away from depression, you steer. The sky so blue. The sky, not you.

That is new.

It’s the new you.

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