When I think of life, I see an empty canvas ready to be painted upon, or open blank pages that are waiting to be written on. A baby is born, their first words in a book say; "where am I?" "what is this world" "this is so cool" or some babies have an anxiety "bring me back into mothers womb?" "I' am scared, what is this?" But as you say, they do not know how to speak our language, maybe not by tongue but in their little cubicle minds...they have a language we once understood then only time could tell.... When I think of life, I see empty pages and canvases waiting to be spilled onto, but some art dusty and rusty, gone through 0-100 and have no space left but to die and leave it to the rest, because all those pages have been fulfilled. Life carries on, into the next barrier of a woman's womb...and that is truly where the first page starts, or the first speck of paint draws...into the ****** of a fruitful woman most babies will call their mother.
If I give you my book with all these ripped pages would you risk to read all of its bittersweet phases? Would you stay to scribble in the remaining pages? would you take the time to understand each chapter?
I can write it better or I can try cursive well life goes whiff and I go passive my attempts are honest, well true enough what more should I say, don't skim to my last page first You have missed all the funny part so many falls and then a flatline.