You Might As Well Face It...
“it’s like the drying glue in art class that was so pleasing to rub"
It’s terrifyingly great. It opens up your senses- the hibernating ones- and makes you feel completely alive:
Titillating, your buds spur in excitement. Each twentieth of a tablespoon of salt can be tasted explicitly. The thin layer of saliva is the upper mantle of the earth.
There are speakers somewhere, perhaps in the back of the room, but Mazzy Star’s voice is next to you, and the lyrics have been reared specifically for your current state. You don’t mean to eavesdrop yet you overhear far too much and retain it as well.
A doctor once prescribed you reading glasses yet fine print is familiar and that of a Stop sign. Colors jump. There is a message in the clouds and windows are so sparkling you consider investing in Windex stocks.
A routine bumping into someone on the subway is in slow motion and you feel her vibration lingering afterwards. A piece of rice falls from your fork onto your index finger; you inadvertently fondle it with your thumb and experience slight bliss, it’s like the drying glue in art class that was so pleasing to rub.
A distinct scent from your childhood appears and you are transported to your grandmother’s living room. The wafting enters full-throttle: Last night’s wine, charring burgers, lilac in full bloom, two hours into a campfire, the lingering of Old Spice, and freshly applied Coppertone. Your olfactory glands have surpassed the speed limit and your body is crawling.
There is nothing that can change this. Here. Now. Your body has become lightweight and there is a perpetual dreamy expression on your face. You’re not as hungry, sustained by Something Higher. Your core feels yoga’d. You are fueled by something you cannot understand and never intend to question it or how it does this to you. All of the regular mundane everyday tasks don’t even knock. Nothing seems stressful. You can get through the idle work hours because afterwards…you will find that opportunity again. You can escape and will undoubtedly feel inspired. If you sing, your voice will shine through the rain, through the screaming siren, the bum who loudly never stops asking for change. The heavens will hear you and the angels will smile and nod, they’ve been there before. If you write, poetry will litter your subconscious. You will think up incredible metaphors while walking or answering the phone. If you run, somehow your legs and lungs will take you further than your usual 5-mile shut-off point. And oddly enough, you won’t be sore afterwards.
This feels like it could last forever. All the tickings and pumpings of your organs and insides are in unison and reminding you that this is how you should be. You’ve found your own personal zenith. You’ve found love. Again.