Because we are young, my brother, we should be okay.
That we are still free to build our adventures, live out our dreams.
These bones and muscles still strong enough to take our falls and the abuse we subject them to.
How we are still on the brink of discovering some truth, rapelling between precociousness and maturity despite scraped knees, scars, the occasional dissapointments. and false starts. Admit it, at the end of the day, because we are young, there’s hope. And though one day time will catch up with us, let ‘s not waste the days mulling over something inevitable. Let’s drink this moment when the water is still clear, and write and shout and be not so afraid to tell what we know.
It never matters in the end what the world thinks. I don’t even think it would matter what we’ve become or at least what they perceive of us. It boils down to a question of want. What we are willing to trade for a slice of this and that, which pain is worth the joy and so on and so on. It’s only the foolish people, with their own regrets, who tell on us, who remark that love or life is wasted on the young. It is not. At least not where it matters—how we are like gold, precious yet malleable and life a burning kiln.
