Impressionist Happiness

It all started in a place usually reserved for one.

Gazing into the blank, glossing over a moment that should have passed by in a blink. To the left was a classic framed by the future and to the right was a cold man standing too close to this sweet land. Shades moving about the light, chasing dreams of days gone, but also preserved for their delight.  Through all the noise of the colorful death, it was none of the hanging memories that covered the blue. No. It was silent introspection that I admired. I suppose that’s the wonder of observation, though. For far too long I’ve stood on the shores watching ships pass by, a candle lit on their bow in search of something with no end in sight. Standing back, being careful because assumptions plague the solace, contentment washing away the gray because some how that journey was not mine to be had.

Sure, I had it once, definitely twice, but ships pass all the time in the deep, dark night. I’ve waited, been impatiently patient to be certain that those conservative guards would see what I saw in this light. Do I speak and forcefully bring that look of peace I know so well? You know, the one that usually escapes me because I am not allowed to simply exist as me. Usually infinite thoughts too tiresome to count cloud my time between seconds, but for the first time in a long time, time is not measured by the iota. It is now time to depart. Head tilts and I feel it too, time to return to the place that I can only see as skewed.

In the beginning I was anxious and worried, perhaps my memory wasn’t real and neither was my impression. Perhaps like most of everything else, it was temporary, but I can’t escape this feeling. I have been seen. Such as the way of things, I look away because it is not meant to be, so I escape before I think things mattered…or so it seemed.

Hello my old friend.

“Hello. I am Happy.”

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