My first breaths were full of joy.
Father held me up to the dawn's rays
and fed me my first meal:
light.
He then lay me down
against my resting mother
and lovingly watched over as we both slept.
They continued to feed me
and they ensured I was full.
My mother taught me how to feed myself.
I would go out into our lawn
and fill myself with the morning light.
At some point,
I noticed the light thinning.
But I continued to eat it and thrive on it.
And one day,
I couldn't see anything.
I went out into the lawn,
and it disappeared from beneath me.
I fell--to where? I don't know.
I still don't know.
I knew nothing, no one.
So I sat. I cried.
And when I couldn't cry anymore, I just sat.
I sat. And sat. And sat.
I fell over, and I thought this was it.
But I heard my mother's lull,
keeping me awake.
And in the corner of my eye,
I saw a small, flickering light.
The lull was coming from it.
It took everything I had to lift myself up again.
And I still fell. So I tried again.
And I fell again,
so I crawled towards it.
It was blinding, I retreated again and again.
I couldn't handle it. The changes,
they were too much.
The lull, it was so soothing,
but it stung to go near.
But the dark, it was consuming me.
It was eating away at me bit by bit--
I knew I had to get out.
So I crawled and closed my eyes.
After what felt like years, I opened my eyes again.
I was on a cliff, staring off at the horizon.
On the edge,
were my mother and father--
they had been waiting.
I sat beside them and held their hands.
The sun crept over it,
carefully, allowing me to take it in
for the first time in decades.
I opened my mouth
and ate the light.
I finally felt full.
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