If there was a theme for this year so far, it would be fragility.

The clumsy grip we have on this life has never seemed so indiscriminate, so chance; so delicate. The flimsy bubble of "that couldn't happen to me" has suddenly burst and the ragged edges of my consciousness are daring me to wonder about the last breath I'll take, the last person I'll smile at.

It makes me want to figure out my faith and it makes me want to dance with strangers. It makes me wonder about the words I choose and the time I take growing up. It makes me want to hold onto youth and yet rush into maturity – to present the world with what I'll be, before I can't. It makes me want to smile more, laugh louder, and live fuller. It makes me want to seize the day before the day ceases me.

And I listen to happy chords pouring through these earphones, while experience keeps pulling my head back to highway car crashes, back to terminal illness and the notion that only the good die young. I talk carelessly, while experience marks my words and fits them into eulogies and epitaphs.

I guess you just make the best of each smile and each word and you take pictures of sunsets when you can. You take walks under the moon and you give your spare change to strangers. You stop thinking so much about what it is you're saying, and think more about just saying it anyway. You start enjoying each breath, each keystroke. You take pieces of life and grip them tightly. You make the most of each situation and you give each hour, each minute, the most life you can give it.

So I'm up before the sun, waiting for fate to steer I'm not sure where I'm going, but the sheer possibility pulls at me in a way I've never noticed before. And that promise is both fragile and powerful.

And it is strangely appropriate that through sorrow, I have come to grasp the delicate nature of joy and the fragility of life. The fragility is what makes it worth living.