Looking at the Horizon

My hands are cradling the book and the book is shaking and everything is run-on sentences and beautiful words. It isn't blood that runs through my veins, it's liquid gold and I feel like I'm running and I don't want to speak because the minute I say something, the beautiful words inside of my head might escape and all I want them to do is stay because when your mind is full of beautiful words, everything else is beautiful too.

Enormous, freezing raindrops aren't a nuisance and you aren't complaining about your shorts and sopping wet hair because all the rain does is make you laugh and laughing is just as beautiful as all of the words inside. The wetness, the warmth you feel makes you feel as if you're glowing, as if you could run and run and run until the world stops turning. It's almost like someone erased all of the bad things that have ever existed and, for just one moment, one minute, one second, you're full of all of those bright and happy things that keep everyone going day by the day.

There are times where everything feels so dull and not quite.. Dark.. But almost like a fuzzy television or drunk goggles, where everything is hazy and fuzzy and blurry. It's almost like a vacation, a time where everything is bland and I feel like I'm asleep, almost. 

Where it's almost like I'm staring into a black hole, into that endless abyss and it feels like the tide, pulling me in and then pushing me out and then pulling me in and then pushing me out but there are times where I get swept away and I'm left wondering whether this obsidian ocean, the grey crest of the waves is the last thing I'll see and if I'll drown or if I'll be pushed back to the shore again. And sometimes, I don't want to return to shore.

No matter how much I try and convince you, I'm not another basket case. I'm not crazy and when I say I'm not like anybody else, I like to think that I genuinely mean it. After all, who else daydreams about blonde zebras, kissing the king of youth and collars that allow you to shape shift? I'd like to think that my eulogy will go something like this:

"She played in the moonbeams and ran through the sprinkles just after dawn. She could scream at the volume of a whisper and sometimes her whispers were so loud they might as well have been thunder. She lived as she died and with her, every moment was beautiful."

But who knows.

In the meantime, I'll keep reading these books that sound like a sunset and drinking up that uncontainable beauty because that tide won't wash me out this time.

Not this time.