There is a state of being I miss,
It is happiness without memory,
the feeling of joy in a world constantly renewed,
and yet utterly familiar.
It shifts and fades like a spectre in my mind,
So frail, it almost dissolves in my thoughts.
But to miss, is to have been.
To have seen, to have felt.
And I cannot recall this place, this feeling
in any age I have been on this earth.
To know that every second’s breath is taken in complete health
and every touch is a grand event.
To see is to exist, and every sight is a beautiful truth.
Perhaps its in the weight of things, in an era where time
is not propelled by events unfolding,
but is courted by the pace of the heart,
and the gentle, firm curiosity