just remember, dear,

there's that part in you that gives all-knowing advice.

the knowledge and courage that you always convinced yourself you weren't worthy to have.

where it tells you to jump into that swift, cold river,

even though you are too afraid.

to run a couple more steps,

or to tell the truth,

despite your fears.

that tells you to inhale deeply and exhale slowly,

hoping that you'll learn how precious those gasps are.

you know when you breathe,

you let out a little bit of grace each time.

i want to bottle it up,

put it on the shelf over my bed.

so when visitors come in and ask what's in that empty mason jar,

i'd respond with, 

"memories. and a lot of hope."

but that would be selfish,

because everyone deserves to experience just how great those movements of your lungs are.

you touch people, 

just by breathing.

doesn't that make you feel powerful?

that advice, that thing we often dispel as insanity

is what moves you to the realization that there are so many things in this vast complexity of life,

much more captivating than social media. 

you taught me that,

i hope you remember.

because if it weren't for that innate whisper instilled within each of us,

we'd miss out on some of the most captivatingly, beautiful things:

deep breaths that fill your lungs with hot air, expand your chest and make you feel infinite,

those times where you meet a  stranger at a crosswalk who will paint your life in technicolor,

or that pull of your gastricnemus as you ascend that peak in provo,

approaching the summit, 

realizing that this,

all of it,

is so much more than any of us can compile into a sweet sonnet.

i want to be selfish,

keep that jar all to myself.

but your advice,

and that tiny voice i so often want to ignore,

has taught me better.

listen, will you?