In the pale gold light, fingers reaching like an epiphany to my eyes, a voice that speaks the sounds, reason #792 of why this cold and bitter life I have is worth every drop of energy I pump into its veins...
...And it feels like I've been living this moment forever. I can never remember what happened before, and what happened before the before feels like a torrid love affair, a sordid nightmare that I could never wake from. It's a place I wouldn't mind returning to, but only for a minute. Only for a visit.
Nostalgia is the strangest feeling. Like riding on the backs of distant memories, going 90 miles an hour crashing full on with pain, hope, sadness, joy, and love.
I remember it all too well. That smell. The smell that lingers in your mind of things so small. Too small to dwell on, yet too enormous to forget. That's the smell of the things that make you you.
The fragrant scent of walking barefoot down a paved road at dusk, a road to nowhere, but it's the only place that really feels like home. The rocks that dig into callouses, gushing forth blood that is soothed by the freshly fallen dew on blades of newly cut grass. The smell of rain soaked Earth, and new life taken to seed. The smell of lightning bugs and diesel fuel. The smell of home.
The pungent odor of new beginnings. Swerving between trees and bodies. Bodies of trees. Dancing hula hoops around the mid-sections of women in beaded dresses smoking cigarettes. Incense swirling around the flashes of neon fireworks, and warmth like a first kiss embracing your body. This is the scent of forgiveness both for yourself and others. This is the scent of longing both for the past and the future. The scent of love.