In fact, it was romantic. It was life, and as I urinated that morning and bought a candy bar, I couldn't help but think that it was the first morning of the rest of my life. As we waited for the inevitably tardy flight, I heard a faint whisper from my past. It was one of my high school chums, Danny Walker, preparing to fly back to Amherst. At this instant in the blistering heat of cognitive dissonance, I understood that simultaneously, we are infinitesimally small and vast.
Existence is a melange of old new close and distant, somehow.
Finally, the quarters of my consciousness, which had instinctively traveled to the corners of reality in search of purpose, had run together with a resounding thud. As we wandered down the beach, the waves beckoning us to come and be rejoined with mother earth, we discussed life and death, moments big and moments small. It was a conversation made possible only by the hazy clarity that one achieves at 3 a.m. after smoking pot and drinking too much booze, the sort of conversation that will be remembered not for what was said, but for the intensity of the emotion felt. It was the sort of magical, mystical moment that cannot be described without cheapening it, that when I try to convey the sense of wonder and discovery seems like a joke that's missing the punchline. And yet, I realize that I must try to get the message across.