Groups, Foxes, Fantasy, and Death (Rambling)

Sometimes I watch people in groups, not two or three, but a large number of friends or close acquaintances with a united purpose.  I want to be part of something so much my body aches in a way that has nothing to do with rheumatoid arthritis.  But only sometimes.
I think in passive voice.  Even my brain is boring.
I wish more media in the fantasy genre featured people thirty-plus.  Life is a jaded thing.  People my age or my mom's age would never be called upon by a wizard.  We'd never save a kingdom.

Our hearts are broken and we don't know it.  We're unable to use them to see the unseeable.  Practicality is the antithesis of wonder.  Magic is a gift with an expiration date, and "awe" retracts soon after.  All we remember are echoes.  And pain comes with the knowledge.
I'm writing a poem about a fox kit who believes Mars is her home planet because it's the same coloring as her (she's not red-green color blind like other foxes).  She desperately wants her mother to believe along with her-- go with her to Mars, though wild foxes won't live long enough for the trip.

It's not a poem, I guess, just a story I'll never write.  Our Kit deserves to be written into life even though I won't, even though she won't survive the journey in rocket or page.
I'm on my way to my oncologist's office today, my entire body consumed by ache.  I'll slide through places where my breath is held to hold it again as they read the results.  

We all die on our journey, that's how we know where the stop signs are.  Will I be halfway to Mars or staring at the sky asking someone else to believe?

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