The baby slid out of its mother in one final push of unseen muscles. It cried. It laughed. It spoke. It sang.
And its mother? Silent. Blind. Dead.
The baby slid out of the darkness into more darkness. Without a mother and without a name, it stayed and it cried. It laughed. It lived.
And its father? Lost. Absent. As good as dead.
The baby slid out of one womb and entered another. It cried. It learned. It remembered. And it grew.
The baby slid out of this life and into the next in a box in a hole between ashes and dust. It cried no more. It laughed no more. It danced no more. It lived once more as a pure soul.
And it was happy to keep sliding in and out of the lives of children who live a short time as nameless things. In the faltering weak heartbeat of a premature baby there is much we don't know. Is it the length or the breadth of a life that gives it its value? Is the life of a few precious seconds worth it or not?
Is the untitled life worth living? No bullies at school. No joy of homework. No tests and trials of puberty and adulthood. No achievements and ambitions. No desires and wants for more than is necessary.
If you had a choice at birth, to live a prosperous long life or an uneventful short one, do you know which you'd choose? Knowing what you know now? Would you be able to make such a choice? I wouldn't. I'm too attached to my title, my path in life, the illusion of control I cling to in order to make living life bearable and valuable.
The baby slid out of its mother in one final push of unseen muscles. It cried. It laughed. It spoke. It sang. That baby was me. I'm still crying. I'm still laughing. I'm still speaking and singing.