Irony, perhaps?

The following is found on a crumply piece of coffee-stained paper that has lived at the bottom of my awesome red backpack for the past few days. It is covered in doodles, which are primarily in blue ink, and messy, scribbled words, which are primarily in black ink.

My favorite doodle, incidentally, is of a man smoking a joint wearing a top hat, professing his love for cheese in German. But I digress.

Ahem:

"Every so often in life, the beauty of existence just hits you. You realize life is important, that every single still-frame means something, is designed as perfect.

One would think that this sort of epiphany would strike in some sort of meaningful time and place, such as beholding the beauty of a vast canyon or the towering Alps, or perhaps the precise moment you look into your child's eyes for the first time.

But sometimes it happens when you least expect it, such as when you are sitting alone [and very very still] in a sea of unique, important, beautiful individuals, moving and talking and breathing, in a college bookstore in a strange town, which itself is surrounded, surrounded by dust and a vast expanse of breathtakingly blue sky, and Earth that expands infinitely into the horizon.

...But then, the compelling urgency of documentation and language itself and the simple passing of time and colors and sounds distract, and the feeling is gone, as fleeting and intangible as sand that's slipped through fingers, fingers that ache for that feeling just one more time...

And all we can do is remember."

And here I choose to end this; more ramblings on the hindering nature of language litter the page, but I shan't include it. Mostly because I'm way tired, but partly because I don't necessarily agree with it. Where would I be without language?

E.B., you do not know it, but you remain a very influential individual in my life.