I died three times in the last five years. That is a lot of funerals, but just as many rebirths.

Once, when I fell for a man who I didn’t even know. I followed the beating of his drum and fell into a state of existence that unraveled all I knew about myself and this Universe. I was locked up in an institution for the first time and labeled Bipolar.

Another time, I fell harder. Harder for a man I knew too well, as our souls yearned for the same things – love and understanding in its most heart wrenching state. Pure, raw love. His music floored the gas that drove me across the United States in a frenzy to find out who was serenading me under my window every night. I was locked up again for discovering I was fueled by fire, blazing hotter than any brand upon my psyche.

The third time was the fatal fall. I finally jumped over that waterfall and landed, broken, amongst rocks that cut me to the bone. Except this time. This time. He joined me. Tumbling down, breathless, under waves of rushing water to meet a glimpse of fate we both sung in our hearts. He was not a musician like the rest. But he sung a song only I knew. A secret we kept for one another. I perished completely as I was locked up yet again for discovering I was sane, afterall. He landed safely. You see, one of the two embers needs to stay alive in order to breathe fire back into the other. Whether they burn far from one another or not, it doesn’t matter. Their flame is from the same source and will always burn as one. Dead or alive.

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