"Captains Log... day 7,284... time... 13 hours, 16 minutes... The three that remained? Anderson, died this morning, Walsh is registered missing, and me. I know I won't last much longer, this is my farewell to those trying to reach Point 367: don't bother. We're here, we've made it, Collins left the ship to check our damage and returned in adequate health. Less 3 hours later, what feels like half the crew was admitted to Med Bay 4, and Collins was far gone. We died in the eye of the storm, just not the one we expected. Acting Captain, signing off."

"Why so serious?", they ask.

I have shared so many reasons,

Told too many excuses,

But I have more.

Which one to choose, 

After all,

This is my big decision for the day.

Maybe I'll make something up,

Like I always do...

I'm moving,

My brother was hit by a car,

My parents are splitting up... 

Or I could tell the truth...

I'm terminal,

I have two months to live, 

And I'm spending it at work,

With you people who don't care enough to ask if I'm okay.

But...

"I'll be fine",

I say,

In response to the question,

But not the one they asked.

I should've moved,

Answered,

Prayed,

Said yes,

Ran harder,

Dreamed bigger,

Been stronger,

And because of that, 

I'm here. 

But he's there,

Because he stayed,

Asked,

Hoped,

Excelled,

Swam faster,

Stayed stronger,

Prayed more,

And I should be there, 

Not here.

And it never will be,

Even though we hoped,

Prayed,

Loved.

I will never understand,

Why everyone around me can recite the quadratic formula,

"Negative B plus or minus the square root of B squared minus four AC over two A.",

Yet not one of us can apply for a job.

When asked, 

We can tell you what anything in Romeo and Juliet means in modern English,

Because knowing that "Wherefore" means why, and not where,

Is more important than paying taxes.

But maybe I'm wrong,

Maybe when I apply for that apartment down the street, 

They'll simply ask if I know who won the 1962 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine,

And who I think should've won,

"Rosalind Franklin", I'll say,

And I'll have the place.

Correct me if I'm wrong,

Because really, 

I wouldn't know, 

But I don't think that's how the world works.

Wandering along,

I stop and stare,

At the sunny horizon spanning in front of me,

Endless,

Stretching on for ever and ever.

Everything slows to a stop,

The clouds roll in,

As the rain begins to fall,

Slowly at first,

Then suddenly,

Pouring down on everything in sight.

First it hits the houses pitter-pattering on the roofs,

When it hits the trees,

The branches shake and spray the water down,

On to me,

On to others walking by,

On to cars where whipers brush the water away,

Into the street.

Just like that,

The rain is done,

No longer falling down upon me,

Gone from the sky,

But not yet gone from sight.

Droplets slide off leaves,

Umbrellas of passersby,

They roll down the street,

Down drains and off of cars,

And off of me as I stand still,

Watching the rain disappear,

as if it were all a dream.

silence is darkness on summer evening, 

the stroke of a paintbrush on a new piece of paper,

fingers tapping out stories on a keyboard on a Monday afternoon,

the slow sips of coffee taken at the cafe down the street, 

wind rustling through leaves and shaking them down each Autumn,

the smell of the cookies your grandmother makes when you visit,

silence is a dog resting with his head in your lap.

silence is a small child sleeping with the light on, 

the feeling when you fly down a snowy mountain on skis,

a classroom filled with students struggling to finish a math test,

the color of the sky on a rainy spring day,

waking up from a much needed nap,

the way the grass sways when the wind is blowing,

silence is the moment after the orchestra stops playing.

silence is knowing how much we are loved.