What does it mean, to live?

    She asked herself that often.

Is life just an illusion?

    She analyzed it, looked at it from all angles.

Why live?

    She thought, for a time, that to live was to create.

Is life in the words pouring from her fingers, or maybe the lines?

    Then, she looked at it again.

Is life, perhaps, in the destructive power of a closed fist?

    She though that maybe, there wasn't a reason for life.

So then, what is death?

    She thought it might be the end of life.

Bur if one doesn't know what life is, how can one know its end?

    She tossed it from hend to hand, feeling the question as if it were a toy to play with.

Is death a new beginning?

    She thought, maybe death opened a gate.

How can death be the end of life, if life cannot be understood?

    She thought it might just be the end of rational thought.

In order to understand death, did one have to understand life?

    She thought, yes.

So, what is life?

    As she pondered this question, she looked out the window. She saw a tree, its leaves crisp and golden, ready to drift to the ground at the slightest breeze. And she saw a bird, flying high in the sky. That day, as she moved throughout her life, she took note of the things she saw.

    And she smiled.

So then, what is life?

   And she thought, life is in the small things.