It’s been like being six years old again, lying in bed awake in the many hopes enveloped by anticipation on Christmas Eve or the night before our birthdays. But we’re no longer small children, and these days are not known to our world as different than yesterdays or tomorrows, excepting their uniquely quantified names: twelve-eighteen-twenty-ten. But they are. These nights we stay up with the anticipation of simply being alive, laying in bed wide awake simply because we exist, knowing that what we are living no longer differs from the things that we can dream. Eyes open, not falling asleep.
Eyes OpenIn by Lucía on December 18, 2010 at 9:20 am