Insomnia

I awake with a start 

thoughts rattling through my head, questions that seem so simple until dissected.

Decisions . .

What's the difference between life and living?
Are the similarities the same with 'to give' and 'giving'?
Do they agree that seeing is believing or perception is the lie we're all telling?

Respond . .

Life is oneself through days, through months, through years and beyond,
The timeline of experiences of memories continuing on.
A collective, a group, a story, a novel,
Based on oneself, of their journey through hell and heaven.
So what then is living?

It seems to me in all clarity that living is life, not the brief but the mission.
Living is the decisions we are faced with in life,
The moments, balanced on the blade of a knife,
Not the time it takes or the memories collected,
but the instantaneous exploitation of everything perceived that's accepted or rejected.
Living is us . .
 . .and life is the journey.

Life is a tale continuously told as we grow old through time and learning.
Or is it just to 'be alive'? To open eyes? To have a pulse, to be of conscious mind?

One thing is certain as I draw my curtain and look to the dark night below
Whether life is living or decisions are made by seeing not believing,
Whether all of these questions are needed or just confusing,
I know one thing for certain . .
I know right now, 

I would much rather be sleeping.

Transference

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The old man woke
reached around for the light switch and found his cold mug of tea,
without thought or sound he raised the mug to his mouth, took a swig and let the fluid pour down.....

The old lady opened her eyes,
brushed away her tears and said her goodbyes. 
Dismal and pale, a black veil drawn, she kissed the old man on the forehead and walked down the hospital hall.

The small child first saw the world,
kicking and screaming after a miracle birth.
Creased and wide mouthed he was cradled and towelled, and passed to the mother to take care of him now . . .

One hour after, the mother found her son,
silent to the room and to the sound of his lungs.

At ten minutes to 2 the doctors came through, clutching their gloves and a tracheostemy tube.
With strong hands and stern minds, they fought for th child and with their skill and might tried to save the childs life.

Black veil drawn, the old lady met her son, who told her the news of his newly born.
With glazed eyes and steely denial the old lady rushed to room number 5.
There where she had been only hours before, was her grandson on a bed surrounded by all.
Next to the door lost in thought and peering in looking distraught was her step daughter.

The old lady, with her hands, her heart and soul looked to the sky for strength in her woe . . . . . .

The old man woke a little after 3, rubbed his eyes looked down from the skies and saw his old lady.
To her he whispered and reached down upon and stood in blind sight next to his grandson. Through doctors hands he reached his own and placed them on the small torso.

With all his hope and all his might he left himself. . . .

As time passed and doctors left, the mother mourned and the old lady rested her head on the shoulder of her kin.  

Through her lips she whispered and silent eyes glistened, broken and twisted by what she had witnessed.
Still she hoped and she rocked as she wept, still the child lay on the table to rest.

The hours pass as the tears and hopes fall, squashed by instances out of anyone's control.

But the old man child in his hands had left himself. . . . .

Life passed

And now the whole family wept, but not through sadness. . .

For on the cold metal table, a small torso moved, 

inhale, exhale a slight rise of the chest

and from his blue lips came the smallest of breaths.

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