Have you ever looked around at a new place and thought “Well this is much too pretty.” That’s where I’m at right now. I’m on vacation somewhere that is, to describe it cruelly superficially, really fucking beautiful.
In contrast to all this vibrant beauty, there’s me. As I am, I don’t really belong here. Everything is alive and happy and growing and contributing to the world around it, and I am barely alive, not altogether vibrant, and I relate a lot with sinkholes because they’re unexpected disasters that absorb everything around them and leave only devastation behind.
Being a tree sounds a lot better than being a person. There’s a tree outside my window right now. I love this tree. It’s perfect. It’s tall and knows its job and looks out of a sweet little river and I’m sure it has squirrels in it, and it has a little moss growing up the side. Moss is the wet living carpet I’ve always wanted to sleep on. I have no moss on me. I don’t even have leaves.
Everything natural here is perfect in that it’s doing what it’s supposed to and needs to do nothing else. The trees are eating sunlight and breathing and generally being tall and chaotic. The blackberry bushes are jumbles of twisting bits and potential juicy energy. The river is keeping them all company and babbling like the darling it is. And here I am from the desert, totally unaccustomed to this much vigorous life, wondering how anyone has the time to look at it all.
I love being new places with new things around me, new life and things to see and all that, but this place feels better than I expected. It just feels nice, like everything that’s alive here wants to be, and though I can’t yet relate, I’d really like to.
I’m going to see about getting some moss to sleep on.