I’m trapped in this artificial bubble. I keep pointing at it and asking questions so everyone can shrug and tell me, it’s life. Sometimes I’ll stand right at the edge of a curb, the toes of my worn out converse poised on its precipice, and think about not being dead. I like the way I feel as the traffic slides by. When it’s something big like a truck or a bus I can feel the wind drive through me as it races to catch up. It makes my spine tingle. I’ll stand there until I know I can walk.