The Pulse That Outlives Me Since I was small, my hands have itched for the weight of something new, the warm breath of an idea still wet from birth. While others chased nights strung with music and lights, I chased the hum beneath my ribs— that low, holy vibration that says: Make. Make. Make. I am not afraid of death— only of silence, of the stillness that comes when the last word dries, when the last color fades from my palette. Some people fear missing the party. I fear missing the next perfect shiver of creation, the one that seizes my spine like lightning, the one that says: Here. This is yours. Make it real before it slips away forever. Even as a child, I knew my bones would be dust one day. But a poem— a song, a shadow on film, a brushstroke on canvas— that could outlive me. That could keep my voice whispering in the ears of strangers long after my name is forgotten. So I make. I bleed ink. I sweat pigment. I dream in shapes and sounds. Every piece is a fragment of the monument I am building to outlast my pulse. And when I am gone, let them find my works scattered like constellations— each one a flare I sent into the dark, each one still burning, still warm, still breathing my name. https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149