things i have written, philosophies i identify with, and things you should know.
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“What do you think?” I ask him.
“About what?”
“Anything,” I say. “What do you think about anything?”
He is quiet for a minute. He thinks over his answer. In the meantime, the wind hits my hair and caresses my clothes, and it tickles my skin in a good way. The air smells like pine needles. The sun feels so good and I dread the moment that I have to move from this position.
“I think that I feel so alive,” he says, finally, “and that I have always existed purely in this moment. All else has been imaginary.”
I imagine what he looks like in this moment, without looking. His hair is likely glistening, waving, the colour of hay and honey. His eyelashes would be delicately dancing, still wet and shining. I know that right now, his skin is ready to be touched by the wind, ready to be made pure and new. I am sure that all who sculpt and paint human masterpieces must have once caught a glimpse of him; I am sure that my head spills all of my thoughts of him to everyone in the whole world and that is where their art comes from.
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