Alive

Being crazy isn't over-rated.
More than once I've been titled "obnoxious", "rebel" and "wild."
That's as much intentional as natural.
I guess it's just the way I'm wired.
To me, alive feels like wind. The kind that grabs all of your hair and pulls it in a good way. The kind that catches in your lungs and takes your breath from you.
Alive feels something like the way your heart jumps seeing blue lights in the rear view and then flying right past you.
It's sitting out the truck window with your hair down when he's driving way too fast.
Alive goes something like deep conversations on long gravel roads.
Drinking too much coffee and getting up too early, watching the sun come up between your favorite pony's ears is feeling alive.
It's long kisses and rough hands.
It's that fine line between thinking you're gonna die and living.
That fine line between thinking you're going to get caught and getting away.
I don't want the kind of crazy that steals your phone and accuses you of cheating.
I want the mystery kind of crazy.
Alive is an edge. A sharp one. One that has blood stains and daffodils and feathery, white clouds.
It's feels like the adrenalin rush when a colt bogs his head beneath you and you stick him.
Alive to me is just feeling. Something. Anything. Emotion.
I would rather cry, giggle hysterically, fury, scream and grin than to lethargically watch my world pass by.
I want to see it. Touch it. Hear it. Feel it. Be it.
I don't want to feel like I'm not moving or living.
Alive; that's the way I like to feel.
And if crazy is what alive feels like, I want to be crazy.
Go be alive.
Even if it means you are a rebel. Hell some of the coolest people I know are rebels. Like my mom. She's a badass and that's one of the things she got titled.
Life's too short to not feel alive.

Luvs, Gussie