Pulse

I'm rekindling the fire for my past loves. Slowly they are returning to me, greeting me the way someone greets an old friend whom they love but have not seen in many years. I feel as though I am finally returning to myself.

The timing is not the best, but who am I to turn them away when they knock so loudly and persistently at my door? You should always open your door to the things which will take you back to who you used to be; there is no other way of seeing how far you've come.

As I relish the feeling of the meeting, I realise something: these are the very things which course through my veins, which pump through my blood; these are the things I'm made of. My pulse.