to live

it is enough, so they say.
you exist, you walk about just like anyone else.
to be, plainly, is to draw another breath.
i mean to say, it is enough to believe in something beyond simple existence.

children, in various places of youth and adorability, are all about.
perhaps you remember yourself in passing; sometimes they are a petty annoyance.
oh, the freshness of an unsoiled mind, its prismatic glimpses into the adult world so refreshingly naive as to lure us all in.
we are, all of us, in that long-passing time of decades of age.

my parents have grown accustomed to one another's voices.
they have to repeat most everything, even if they are in the same room.
voices, like a singular presence within your home, become comfortable reassurances.
there is despondence within this, and thus i have striven to be as fresh as a new day.
everytime is like the first time for me.

there are tears for what has passed.
there is also transcedence to what may be here, and in the future.
i feel first- impulsively grasping to be, to live, to be more than average.
idealism makes a vibrant spirit: all at once the best is hoped for, but melancholy are the days of knowing reality's reign.
bargaining is for the desperate.
i'd rather have the strength to turn the page, or even begin a new chapter.

a coutenance: the afterglow rises in peach cheeks.
a smile is spread upon the mouth for reasons few are privy.
someone pressed four dimples there.

to live, to be- it is enough for a second.
to believe in hope and allow it to hook your heart for this existence is a way to soar above menial mediocrity.
then the minutae, other peoples failures redoubled by your own, and whatever reason death tasted better are no longer concerns.
then who can hold fast your ankles and beg you to stay?
only a child.