I do not want to die. I think of all the beautiful things that are contained within a life, my life…what it is to be alive. Paris, or that feeling of the first empty glass of wine, the warmth of a bed while its dark and rains. The way certain men make me feel. Or long lunches with my Dad, who before dessert falls asleep at the table in his chair. The hum of my Mother’s sewing machine which I read a book to in her living room. I think of all the books I’ve read, hope to read and the songs I cling to like friends. I imagine never hearing them again and never reading certain words I love again. I think of the sea in the summer, sunset on a boat with a great friend, or that first crisp autumn breeze. And my brothers, the kind of great men I wish all men could be. I cannot fathom the day I won’t be laughing like children with them. And the dogs, all the happy, loving dogs on leashes in streets I haven’t yet seen. The pasta in Italy, pastries in France, seafood in Spain… the day will come when I taste them all for the very last time. I think of all I love that I one day, won’t be here to see, or hold or claim as mine or will one day be. The hopes I have ; the loud ones and the quiet, silent, burning ones I hug – what will happen to those when I’m gone? I absolutely do not want to die. I want this heart of mine to thrive and beat for as long as it can in this world so full of beauty, love…it is a world so wide. And this, this is why I am sitting here crying over the fact that one day it won’t be mine. That one day and certainly far sooner than I’d like, I’ll die.