There are sounds that pull me along in slow and pleasant tugs. Textured maws of noise that stretch my heart with wholesome tension. Cyclical ebbs and flows guide me to warm sanctuary, while sporadic shimmers and glimmers of movement tell me to gaze upward and behold. I feel grounded, and hopeful, and grateful, for the space carved out in this landscape.
I feel a simmering catharsis that bubbles up memories of timeless moments. Sitting atop an old car, watching the sunset with my first love. Witnessing a friend's golden aura as they slow-dance alone in front of the stacks. Stepping outside the club to feel the steam of sweat erupt from my body on a cool night.
It's not taking me back, as though I were experiencing these moments again. Instead, it's flipping through an old photobook and running my hands across the creases in weathered paper. It's the joy of fond remembrance, that personal reassurance that life has been worth living. It's the anticipation of blank pages still left in the journal, of moments yet to be experienced.