The cream-white plaster of my bedroom wall came into focus this morning as my eyes jerked open. In that instant which each day untangles my imagination's nightly-spun fantasies from the consciousness of waking life, I was content with the air of my first few breaths of the day, with the dust-filled rays of light cutting through the room above me, with the soft, cool touch of the unused side of my pillow as I buried my arms underneath and pressed the side of my face reassuringly deeper into the feathers. Almost instantly, my serenity vanished, splashed like the placid waters of an untouched lake on a windless day at the moment when a free-falling child breaks the surface in his descent from a cliff, high above, sending wave and ripple out to all its shores. My mind was diving, like that child, through the dreams and the darkness of the night before, its fingers outstretched, pushing away eagerly the air and water, reaching out for the state of mental, emotional, and spiritual elation I suddenly vaguely recalled departing late last night in favor of slumber. I found myself wishing away the last several hours of dreams that I might have preserved the feelings I'd stumbled across, submersed in the words I've so taken to getting lost in lately. I stood from my bed, driven by a purpose, the intent to take up that book and deliver myself into a new mental intoxication. I knew it would be unique, different than the night before. I've come to realize that with her, they're all different..... fantastically, perfectly different.
But as I crossed my little apartment to where I left the book, I found a beautiful, accurate relic of last night's journey. I'd left it for myself to discover this morning when I knew I wouldn't be able to recapture the sentiment, but that I'd desperately want to. And, if only for a moment, it worked.
