all we need is the air we breathe

by Sarah!

When I was five years old, I looked at a man with wrinkled skin and covered my eyes, not knowing then that the wrinkles are the trophies of the years he’s been alive.  

I tasted death the first time I saw a leaf fall from her branch and I laughed as I jumped and crushed on her shades of red.

To think about dying is to already be half dead, so here’s to being alive, here’s to counting the stars and making wishes in the dark just to feel closer to where we belong. To making lists of things we know we’ll never do, but feeling better because we write them down.

I feel my blood run through my veins like a pen and its ink, filling my body with words my heart dares to think, filling the layers of my insides with secrets I beg you to unlock.

The key is in the footprint of the places my shoes have said hello to, in the railings my fingers have gently brushed. The key is not only having enough, but always wanting more.

Not more to have, but more to give, and more to be thankful for. You make me see that I have already lived, but my passion lies with those who spend each moment needing to be more alive.

The color of your laughter spreads across the air, creating a painting you made as a child - giving nothing but shades of feelings in containers that you smeared across the paper, the first words are your smile.

The air never looked so yellow, like the first sunrise you wake up to see because you want to, not because an alarm clock told you you should. The first note you sounded out with a voice that wasn’t afraid to be out of tune, because no one knows the way the moon welcomes the lonely unless they’re really alone.

So here’s to the old man who wakes up feeling young. Because age is just a number and a war that can’t be won, and must be fought with intentions of forever knowing even forever ends.

So make those wishes count, and hope for wrinkled skin.