This is my third post today, and it stands just as true as the others.

Today I'm fortunate, and I know what life is. Suburban chaos and the distant repetitive thud of Saturday night music fade to exit, as I realise that I can see the moon from the window of the room that I currently occupy in my parents' house. Today it's life.

Life is about this. It's about the moon. And it's about letting fear dissipate as contented pause sets in. I walked down Charing Cross Rd today, breathing the clammy heat of people who eat normally; watching and feeling people drink normally as I, recovered, slip past without longing. The way I wanted to eat and drink and call it life. And, once, wanting so badly to call that life. It's not life. It never was life.

Life is this. Life is feeling love for someone, it's having a bed to come home to in whatever modest abode I reside. It's about experiencing silence and not the peculiar phenomenon of craving preoccupation. Life is about accidental alliteration, and background noise that doesn't interrupt the transmission of my own, of all our own unrefined cognition.

Cognition itself is life, whichever part of the vast conscious mind chooses to acknowledge it.