ORT

I'm seventeen. Sometimes I still fumble and say sixteen. Because that was the golden age the young me always wanted. But its gone. Like the wisp of the wind, sixteen is but a memory.

And I'm still here. Wading in uncertainty, testing the waters, never daring to take the plunge. I can. I want to. I just don't know how to.

How do I decide? When I stammer soundlessly when asked what I want. Cowardly fearing uttering words I may regret.

To be the idealistic dreamer or the grounded realist?

Desire. Desire to unleash my naive belief in perfection. Out of the confines of the moonlight, into deep-rooted permanency. Comprehension. Comprehension that nothing but something, anything tangible would bear more fruit.

How does one trade life for passion? How does one barter away passion for life?

People say there is no life in a loveless existence. Yet. They never talk of an obsolete passion, hollowed by impotent endeavors.

Decisions. Decisions.

Wretched decisions.

Can I ask you something? he said.
Yes. Of course.
Are we going to die?
Sometime. Not now.

-Cormac McCarthy

Not now.