I write stories in my head as well as things like this, and they never come out on paper in the same way that they are imagined. Life never comes out the way it is imagined either, in the moments we plan before we are struck by sleep. It is never something absolutely perfect, but it can come close when we are caught up in the present.
Most moments like that, for me anyway, feature people. Her dancing on the marble floor as the sun set behind the obelisk. The night we laid on an empty tent platform under the stars and spoke words of the significance of our existence.
Humans are strange creatures. They look for meaning in each other and in their own everyday lives. They hold onto near perfect little moments as if they last lifetimes. As much as my early life was spent trying to fight the fact that I was human, I see now the subtle beauty of our imperfect minds. We cling onto our good feelings; construct monuments and temples around them, until we find a lot of it. Perfect moments that work like dopamine inside and outside of us, giving us breath so we crave more.
Humans imagine those moments as if they are perfect, and in their minds they create crystalline worlds to which they can escape when reality comes crushing on their shoulders. Life goes by fast in waves of passion and pain and feeling, and then those waves return in the land of the semi-conscious before dreams, with heightened sense and emotion, little shooting stars behind the eyelids.
In this world, people fight, and cry tears of anger, and fall out of love, and diamonds don’t shine, they refract light coming from someplace else. But humans hold onto the hope of something more than a refraction of light, more than an awkward aversion of the eyes, and something more than what we've come to know in our every day mess of our lives.
so here's another writing thing