Living is easy. So easy. It's so easy to mess up, to get lazy, to be tired and bored. It's so easy to be disinterested, unmotivated, unforgiving. It's so easy to forget, to never respond, to never choose, to linger endlessly and endlessly and endlessly. Living is easy and not how we like to think. We like to define living as one entrenched with passion, with moments strung together like constellations, with everything meaning something, with midnights filled with moonlit conversations contemplating what could be next. We like to think living is exciting. To think it is defined by risks that changed who we are, who we know, and what we do for the better; to think it is defined by the amount of smiles we give and receive, the hours spent wiping tears from laughter, the numbers of friends willingly standing by our sides. This may very well be part of living. But it's not all of it. It's not hard yet. It's hard to embrace the fact that living is not defined by sparks but by dullness. It is not defined by the single momentous day but by the meshing of hundreds and hundreds of uneventful days. It is not the sole red balloon drifting upwards in the sky but rather the vast, blue air that encompasses it -- the air that has been there all along.