on june and being alive

If you were to ask me what living was, I would tell you that it's biking down a hill,

Tongue out, hands held high, trying to taste and feel the breeze with every inch of my body,

Standing up, gripping the seat with my knees, not bothering to pedal as gravity does the work for me,

My phone wedged between the straps of my backpack, the music it plays seemingly coming right out of my chest,

As if I'm living and breathing in relation to the beat of a drum, not of a heart.

My helmet, strapped to the back of my bag, is rendered useless, because what's the point of it if you can't even feel the  wind flowing through your hair?

It feels like I have freedom flowing through my veins and breathing easy summer joy in my lungs.

And reaching the bottom of the hill, I'm back singing along with the music and riding towards the edge of the sky.
That, my friend, is being alive.