when you take your first few steps on your own little moon,

and test the extent of your five newfound perceptive senses,

and take a few tumbles along the way in an attempt to understand bipedalism,

your cup is filled with the magical substance called 'hope',

a 'hope' that you will beat death and survive for one more day,

for tomorrow when there are more mistakes to make and things to discover

-

but over time your cup gets dented and cracked as you try to adjust to the everexisting turbulence,

and the cup bleeds out,

and it gets just a little bit harder to get out of the bed,

and it bleeds out some more,

and then it gets just a little bit harder to go to bed,

and it bleeds out some more,

and then it gets just a little bit harder to breathe

-

the bleeding never stops,

and when all you've felt for as long as you can remember is black,

and when the white you've always felt becomes tainted gray,

and when your cup is finally half empty,

you realize maybe it's time to drink the rest

-

and this is when your tale arrives at its last few pages,

and you tip that friendly old cup into your mouth,

and you think,

or rather your hope,

that maybe this was what life was made to do,

to make you realize that the cup should never have been filled when you took your first few steps on your own little moon