37, day thirty one
The sky is blinding white. A thick layer of fog clings tightly to the earth. It makes me ache because it is so beautiful. In the sunlight, in the city, in the middle of the day with cars honking and the scent of exhaust mingling with baked bread and food waste, I am a skeptic. I scoff at unmitigated displays of public sentiment. I see rainbow sand I think about the refraction of light. I maintain a healthy ironic distance from the things that I love.
In the overcast, or in the fog, or when the earth is covered in snow, I am a poet. A pretentious, unabashed, fanboy of the beautiful who can’t wait to gush over the latest episode. Sometimes I lie in the grass and stare up at the sky with tears in my eyes from its majesty. In a moment it will open up and spill out its secrets. They will soak into my skin and mingle with my blood. It will travel to my brain, and melt my mind into a pool of effortless joy and fathomless mystery.
Soon enough, the sun will come and burn it all away. I will regain my intellectual and my critical faculties. I will understand once more that the earth is just a ball of rock in a cold expanse that cannot care for it. It will dawn on me that humans are not carved out of conscious light, but thinking animals full of flaws. If I want the world to be full of joy, I need my reason, and I need to work to make it so. I will feel silly that I ever sank my toes into the moist soil and waited to drink up the rain.
For now, none of that matters. I willingly submit to this moment. Until it passes, a very short time from now, it is infinite.