Making Champagne

There’s a word I’m looking for: Alive.

It’s a word somebody said to me once, maybe two. Two syllables, just two meaningless exhalations of breath. Two notes of this language that can be played minor and major, but never intentionally—it seems to break little differently upon the ears of each person.

“Alive”—say it to yourself now, whisper it, feel it on your lips, your tongue, taste what you hear it to be. Alive. Mouth it if prying ears are seated too close, this is for you.

Alive.

Alive means breathing. Alive means thinking. Alive means excitement. Alive means wasteless, Alive means untapped discovery. Alive means pain, that pit that gathers in your gut when you have to choose. Alive means a world, you know, the one you sense, at least sometimes. Alive means something beyond you, something you can see, feel, touch, love.

This is everyone’s “Alive”

But what do…

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