I don't know how long it will last. I don't know if this is a just another fleeting, manufactured sensation of rushing endorphins; fabricated by a combination of Simon and Garfunkel, cheese, crackers and flicking through the final pages of Life of Pi. I don't know if tomorrow it'll be back to business. But, for now, it's something worth noting and acting like a complete sentimental douchebag over. Because it's like this:
It's one of those quiet genuine moments where I feel as if the universe in her ever expanding, mysterious, infinite wisdom has whispered to me one of her personal safeguarded secrets. The moment all those books talk about when they're trying to encapsulate what it means to complete the pursuit of happiness. The moment people tell me about when first hearing Martin Luther King's Speech, discovering Emily Dickinson or covering the tiny pink awkward hands of their firstborn child. The moment usually felt on a sunlit car park roof, surrounded by a mustard sky, familiar company and terrible conversations, where you're feeling impossibly close to the sky, the end of the Earth and the start of goddamn history, because an indescribable sense of almost unbearable contentment seems to creep into your bones and all of a sudden wash over you --your mind racing, heart nearly bursting with affection for having air in your lungs, a body still functioning and the rest of your life worth living.
Or if you want to cut the poetry and semantics, it's like taking a really satisfying dump.
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