You know when you’re in the middle of a crowd of friends, and happy, and talking of good human things, and completely in the moment of just the life you’re actively sharing with people you like? Everything’s as perfect as can be, you’re free and sane and no philosophies are being compromised, and the entire night’s ahead of you.
And then you catch a stranger’s eye, or see a color that’s too vibrant, or a word scribbled on the lamppost, and it takes you right out of your crowd, into that eye or the color or the word, and you’ve lost whatever link you shared with humanity. You’re far away, your friends’ voices aren’t coming through anymore, and the harshest thing is – you don’t want them to. You’re just out there in the wind, holding the moon in your cold fingers, and looking around to see if anyone else is grabbing onto a star for sanity. The world’s dark, the sun is a huge red dying giant, the tides are making earthquakes in your eyes, and you’re right at home.
And then it’s not the same again until you force your brain to shut up or shut down. Your call to the stars hasn’t been answered, and you make the crash landing back into the middle of the crowd. The crowd.
All those light, cheerful conversations and the stories you tell at parties and jokes just raunchy enough to go with the beers, to move things along, to keep those drinks coming, they’re alright, but sometimes it’s that sickly nauseous feeling – dizzy and floating and unsure of where it is that the air current is dragging you – the stale, thick, liquidly air full of intensity, and the round-and-round-and-round dizzy spell – that’s what follows you and stirs you and makes you – you.
Another fun, forgettable social outing, another raw and open moment falling in a forest without a sound, another person who decided you weren’t worth the risk, two more hours on the subway, and you’re back in that same abyss, settling into the familiar loner routine, flying off the edge of the cliff and feeling all that wind, the blessed sharp wind on your face and body, engulfing you and taking you deeper and deeper and deeper into a long desolate path toward something beyond civilization.
You stare down the night, holed up in your quiet, lonely castle and foretell your future in patterns of glistening tea leaves. You’ll move to a place always cold, the beautiful ice queen that you are, and find your perfect frozen ice king; together you’ll follow the paths of the moon and rearrange the days of the week, sleep in a cavern under the never-melting snow, kiss each other breathless and rename the stars to be called after your favorite things, learn to speak without words, find out the secret for turning into trees, icicle-covered leaves rustling in tune with the howling winds, your hair growing longer and longer, as long as rivers, intertwining and turning silver together, and when you die, 100,000 years from now, eternity will end, the sun will redden and descend, and the world will fall deep and forever asleep.