I lift my orange curtain just slightly, peeking through briefly at the commotion happening down below.
They run around aimlessly, little legs and little feet, going everywhere and nowhere, fingers full of toys and snot, and dirt.
The occasional fall sucking in all the sounds into a vacuum of silence, and then the sudden breaking of noise unleashed into a whirlwind of tears and rage and pain none of us could accurately imagine. For them, it must feel like a near-death experience, and for such short lives lived, how frightening a feeling that must be.
For me, the sight of these tots downstairs harkens back to a time I hardly remember, though in the grander scheme of things is hardly all that far back.
I struggle to go there, that time when falling was hardly a cause for concern, when all I would do was run, and run, and run, and never worry about keeping up the pace. I only cared about going somewhere. Anywhere.
I just needed to go, and see, and find, and play. At one point in life, this was what I actually needed, more than anything else.