A (Peace) of Prose

The sky is that perfect brilliant blue. The kind of blue you imagine oceans surrounding far off islands look like. Clear. Pristine. The sun is an electric burst high up in the sky. Blinding almost. Almost. You're lying down on your favorite towel. As wide as Texas and covered in a green and blue pattern that doesn't make sense unless you concentrate on it. But, you're eyes are closed and you are smiling. In the distance you can hear little kids shrieking while playing tag with the waves. Not the mean kind of waves, but the kind that roll lazily -- as if the heat affects them too. For a moment you see it -- like visions of gravity -- and relax. You aren't floating or flying. You're just being. In this instant you know everything -- everything -- is where it's supposed to be. The real world of finals, jobs, student loans, falls away. No, not fall, but crumble. Bit by bit, like a soggy cookie that disintegrates in milk. This is the kind of moment that people who take drugs try to achieve. You see it. You feel it. And absolutely everything is o.k. and everything matters.