What makes you go on?

As a singer near your pianissimo?
As a runner near your halfway mark?
As graying hair near your dark, thin veil?

When you face cannons, naught but a swordsman on your horse, how do you charge headlong into the fray?

I can't help but be captivated, an observer seeing something surreal, like time flowing backward, or a fire cool to the touch.

I'm not another species... I am you, minus your enlightenment. So enlighten me.

How is it that, a vicious, peaceful rebel to your circumstances, you charge with a hearty call, you greet death as an old friend, you run harder than you ever had before?

How is it that when your pianissimo comes, you hold the fermata twice as long as you could with air alone?