It’s all still there, in your lungs; the living memory of every gasp you took in fear or elation or bliss; all those atoms that made up the physical response of a singular moment. You swallowed them down and the seeds for these stories were planted. One day, that story will begin to grow. It will wind its branches through your chest, creeping up the back of your throat, knocking tentatively at the door of your voice and it will wait to be told. When you spin your tale, you flourish. Those tiny moments become the roots that tether you to this life, this truth ripens into the breath of your song.