The Perfect Thing

I had one of those moments. You know, one of those moments.

One of those moments where you're sitting in a car going down a highway, and the window is down and your hair is everywhere, and the radio is playing the perfect song, something up beat and awesome, and you look out at the sky and maybe you see a cloud or two, but the rest is absolute blue and you can't help but smile.

Or when you're swinging and the wind is blowing by you in equal measure, and you feel as if you can, at any moment, leap off and fly with the wings it gives you, and each stroke as you go back and forth doesn't seem like a sad symbolism of your life.

Or when you look up from your book as you lounge on the front porch, and you see the butterflies sailing through the air and the flowers are just blossoming, and the sun is kissing your cheeks, and the wind isn't hot, but it isn't cold, and it's hard to turn away and go back to reading about some fantastic place.

Or when you lay on the grass with your friends all around you, your hair spread out like a rising sun, and you spend the time telling wishes and dreams that don't make sense, but don't need to, and you find pictures in the clouds and the leaves and anything else you can possibly see, and everything has possibility to be funny.

One of those moments, when everything seems to click together, and one can truly believe that this place, this world, is perfect and nothing should ever change, and it will never change simply because it's finally perfect. And nothing, not math, not loneliness, not pain or tears can ruin this moment, because they don't matter.

And you forget to know that following every one of these moments is one equally bad as this is good. You  know the end is coming, and the end is terrible and terrifying. And you can't stop it. You forget to know that this moment is only that, a moment, and moments can't change what they are and become something longer.

And so the song ends and the radio plays something slow and sad and true, or your legs tire and your bum hurts, or a car speeds by and the world you read about has one-upped the butterflies and the flowers and the sun, or a hard secret slips out from loose lips, and the moment is gone.

It has done it's job- it has made you believe in a world that we're not too sure deserves it for a little longer. It packs it's small, heavy bags and moves on to the next person to receive this bittersweet package. And no matter how much you shout at it to come back, it won't. This kind of moment doesn't take orders. It goes where it pleases, and pleases where it goes, and when it goes away, it leaves the smell of rotting leaves in it's place, along with the wistful thought that maybe this world is worth something.


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