I’m scared at how happy I am. Mesmerised by life like seeing snowfall for the first time. Is it naivety? Am I waking up to what life really is, or just in such a positive state of mind that the sunbeams I emit are simply reflecting back at me, the world shape-shifting into a mirage of my rose-tinted view of it?
Will I ever find anyone who appreciates the beauty of life as much as I do? Why am I even concerned? I’m flying solo and learning to love myself, I must be strong and selfish but what a shame it would be if I were the only one who got to experience such joy. I want to spread these feelings that are flowing through my veins as if they're truer than blood - more vital then blood. I want to clumsily spill happiness into someone’s lap; fall into them and bump appreciative heads; poke them in an eye as wide and open as mine.
Perhaps I should get into film making. Capturing just one frame of life doesn’t feel enough anymore. I want to relive every second that escapes me, every beautiful and miraculous moment.
Can you imagine? -
A young couple on their first date in a dark corner of the bar caressing their glasses of murky red wine so they don’t have to look at each other for fear of falling over laughing at how scarily right this feels; her red lipstick that she didn’t need to wear, her legs crossed as she tries to align her body in the most pleasing way. They fall about the streets and climb into a taxi, unsure of how close to sit to each other, but the tension apparently disappears once they hit the sheets and undress - not their clothes but their souls, their everything falls away to leave bare bones and a pounding heart as they talk music, art and life and she flicks through his sketchbooks filled with drawings of girls she can only hope to match up to.
Waking up soaked in sunlight with lipstick smeared on the sheets, an earphone still attached - what happened last night? They fell asleep listening to Modest Mouse in what you could assume was almost a cuddle but not quite in each other’s arms; like two jigsaw pieces laid next to each other but not yet joined together. She tries not to move too much for fear that the bubble may burst. What was she talking about last night? How much of herself did she give away? She wants desperately to resume looking at his sketches, and he lets her flick lazily through another book under the covers. She wonders if this is a big deal for him, whether the last girl got to look too. She probably didn’t appreciate it as much. He talks about how inspiring it is that she is always so driven and motivated and in awe of life. The word muse falls from his lips and she modestly blushes on the outside whilst she screams on the inside.
Still slightly drunk from last night's wine, they go walking through the suburbs and it feels like a movie is playing right before her eyes and every time she says how amazing it is she wants to punch herself for her transparency. But how can she possibly contain it without bursting into pieces?
They reach the shore and it’s all too beautiful to handle. Beautiful doesn’t do it justice but she’s too fascinated to think. She never wants this moment to end. He talks of birds and they share childhood stories and as they walk back home a ginger pussy cat joins them, strutting and mewing beside her and she has to stroke it to check this is really happening. How can this really be? Life is not supposed to be so perfect.
A raindrop hits her neck and he mutters that he hopes it doesn’t start to rain. She secretly begs inside that it pours and pours, that the skies cloud over and the heavens open and they are both washed away to the depths of the sea, floating far away from each other, the morning moments destroyed and never ever to be known of for it was never caught on film and rightly so; for perfection and happiness this strong is a dangerous game to play.