a litany of ruminations

epiphany (the wish of reciprocation in you)

Disclaimer:

*Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston belong to S. E. Hinton in the book the Outsiders,  as I am simply borrowing them for my--and hopefully, your---amusement. In addition, I appreciate the lack of lawsuits in pursuit of me.










..

It's only now, in a dawning realization like rain falling over my eyes, like the scales falling from Saul's eyes so that he could see again, washing the constantly darkening shadows beneath away, crisp and serene and cleansing all my impurities, that the world is beautiful.

It's so beautiful.

Something I've never really noticed until now.

I wonder why I haven't ever seen it.

It seems like it was never there before, but I know now. I know now it's always been there, that warm light, the gentle breeze and open sky, the veil of silver mist over the valleys and the sunsets, oh, the sunsets...

I've just been looking at all the wrong places at the wrong times, at the shadows and not the light.

I don't know---maybe it's through the way the sunlight strikes my skin, gentle and suffusing me with warmth, and lighting thousands of puffy dandelion puffs, seeds constantly drifting for a birthing ground to call home.

Maybe it's the way the birds create chirruping chorus, calling and answering like some orchestral phrase, talking in a language we could never understand.

Maybe it's the way the wind shifts from one direction to another, like a breath, inhaled and let loose upon the lands, and how a fallen leaf-brown rabbit startles when I jog past, hopping away into the cover of verdant growth, the only sign of it now the occasional rustle of grass.

Maybe it's the way sweat stains my back in sticky residue, a valiant effort to cool down the feverish temperatures of my body from the summer heat.

The aftermath of the exhilarating experience of running, the closest I can get to flying, really, wind zipping by, tousling my hair and greasy dark strands catching in my mouth as I try to pull them away with little success, threatening to tug my faded blue-jeans jacket away, but it's snug on my bag and refuses to part. My footfalls come hard and fast, racing just for the fun of it--nobody in fast pursuit.

No Socs at my tail, rings around calloused fingers and a blue Mustang around the corner, waiting to eject its passengers into the streets.

Maybe it's the way the sky is a perfect crystal blue and the sun a sphere of blinding gold and clouds wisps of cotton, bright, so, so, bright...threatening on making me feel so light I'd drift away...float high into the sky and rest on a bed of clouds...despite that impossibility.. I wish...

Maybe it's the way the natural aroma of flowers intermingle over the gentle, occasional breeze, rustling the leaves of trees affectionately like one would do to a younger sibling, gusting through my hair and whispering assurances I can almost hear.

(Almost, but not quite. Like an affectionate mother or reassuring father...A parent I've never had.
Never will have.)

And maybe the most beautiful thing of all is the sunset, an ember cascading down, set on the horizon in a blaze of color-crimson, saffron, vivid citrus--promising a new tomorrow. Promising something different. Another chance, another day.