Alive? 

But what does that mean exactly?  

I may see things before my eyes, 

Unending skies, both bright and dark, 

Smiles and frowns and all the faces in between, 

Images that fly by in colorful blurs, 

I see it all when I bother to lift my head. 

But that does not mean I comprehend any of the sights gifted to me.

I may hear things with my ears,  

Sounds of singing water mixed with clanging metals, 

Melodies of nature coupled with the harmonies produced by man,  

Voices that talk and talk and talk and talk and talk,

Noises that echo constantly and ceaselessly all around me.

But that does not mean I don’t feel the need to block out most of it.  

I may feel things in my hands,  

Flowers and weeds of summer I killed as a child, 

The cold, hard, floor beneath my feet as we run barefoot through the halls,

Their hand in my own, much softer and warmer than mine, 

Everything overloads my senses once they graze my fingers.

But that does not mean I don’t pull away as soon as I get the chance.  

I may remember and forget, 

I may think and feel,  

I may make and break,

I may laugh and cry,
I may do a million things. 

But that does not mean I want to.  

I may be alive. 

But that does not mean I understand what any of it means.