I feel fragile. Delicate. Like an old stained glass window in the steeple of an ancient church that could shatter into a million rainbow shards. Or, maybe I already have.

What's keeping my body together?

It may appear to be just one solid object, but it's really an infinite number of atoms and molecules bound together by some intelligible force - what?

What's to stop me from dissolving into the ground like a pit of quicksand?

Is it "love"?

I’m as thin as a veil, and all the threads that compose “me” are scattered in remote locations across the entire galaxy.

How do I gather them up and sew myself back together again?

Is it really such a bad thing If I’ve nothing to say?

Maybe it’s just that life’s been happening my way.

My father’s in good health,

My girlfriend understands me

She encourages me,

Notices when I’m not trying

I wonder if she’ll be holding my hand 

as I lay dying.

Today I’m twenty-four.

But I miss being twenty-two.

When the horizon was painted

In a more vibrant hue.

Now I can’t help but feel

I don’t enjoy life as I used to.

And when I was twenty-two,

I missed being nineteen.

When ideas coursed through me,

Like a flowing summer stream.

Unbound with the infinite freedom

To live out my wildest dreams.

And when I was nineteen,

I missed being eleven.

When I lived innocently,

Not pondering life’s questions.

Just existing, not a care in the world

I was so sure I’d get back to heaven.

And when I was eleven,

I missed being nine.

When it seemed like moments

Were frozen permanently in time.

Before the stars burned out of the sky

From the sorrow of my mother dying.

And when I was nine,

I missed being five.

When my first memories surfaced

Confirming that I had arrived

Now I’ve found peace with the present

And the feeling of being alive.