I Am Not A Writter

"I need to breathe," a simple, unspoken thought. From the moment you greet the world's lights, under fluorescent or the shine of the moon or the rays of the sun. The first you'll ever think.

The contraction, expansion, the flow of the air in your lungs and the feel of your blood rushing through your thumping veins.

Thought before you even knew the language needed to utter it, spoken before comprehension; driven only by a need to survive. A natural instinct.

The last words you utter as you lie, surrounded by the warmth of your family in a familiar hospital bed, alone in a dark alleyway with only the weight of regret.

Ready or not for death's sweet embrace, your instincts call for one last gasp of the air that fills every crevice of your failing body. Even as you know it knocks impatiently against your doors, your last thoughts are filled with the need to see more, to be more, to live more. "I need to breathe."