Outside

I haven't written in a few days. That's because I've been trapped in an oneiric smoke for the past week or so. I have been outside in the sun, examining white lilies, hot pink and purple grape hydrangea, myriad roses, straight laced lavender, holly trumpeting with sticky red and yellow flowers, endless plants... and then feeling sunlight reach right into my guts and massage any agony out. Yes, it has been that strange. I know I've eaten, but I don't remember. I know I've slept, but dreams and waking are the same tenor. And I miss it. The blissful fog lifted this morning and I woke up startled to remember that I have things to do, people to write to, arrangements to make, even important forms to submit: it all seemed ridiculous to imagine that there is more to life than being in nature and being happy.

Outside is such an odd idea. I think nature is inside, and the removal from it through homes, schools, and buildings is outside. How could someone be genuine in a classroom or on the sofa? You go in nature to remember that you're an animal, then you feel human, and then you know yourself. It only makes sense.