Time passes away like ships that silently go, whose sails are always unfurled, and the wind to them never abates. Youth, only is it observable from a distance, when it has sailed far past, comprehensible like a dream when one is suddenly and irrevocably awakened. Where do the days hurry off to? The world so easily forgets, somehow so much larger than when we were children, when in our little spheres, we were stars — so much more complicated. When did it become so that we were measured by how useful we are? And now, we are here. The world never forgets to age us one day each day, so much smaller than when we were children, when all possibilities were open to us, our future as wide as the starlit sky. Some of us have no dreams anymore. Some of us wonder what we should be doing, not that we do not what we have to, but imagining that life meant something more than necessity, once.

Is it enough merely to hope for hope? Even that may prove to some an infinite effort. For even to do that, perhaps, is to say to ourselves that life is not nothing — and that is something. Walking along a well-carved path, we may look up at that starlit sky again, and just for a moment, time has no meaning, and we are meant simply to wonder why. Why? We sail on often in waters that seem not to change for a vast expanse, but we have much traveled, and it shows in our faces. Sail on and on. We are all going somewhere, whether we like it or not, and we may choose where, and we may choose how — but not to go is not an option. So, choose. We are so much freer than we believe ourselves to be: what a world is ours that makes us forget that, but what a heart is ours that lets us remember.