12. Candied joy

Tomorrow, I’ll get to see you. I’m flying south for a long weekend.

My emotions have been fermenting since I booked the flight: A palette of goofy serpentine colors giving a buzz to my sometimes undulating sobriety /Outbursts of confetti bonding with me / An amalgam of parachutes majestically escorting my reconnaissance mission all the way to the shorelines.

I have faith in this forthcoming change in scenery, the three days we’ll spend together.

In poetic jargon, how can I put it?

• A sort of off-season pilgrimage, come what may;

• An overpowering sensation of consciousness into which I percolate, attuned to dangling dormant memories;

• An openness to aerial forms of experiences reminiscent of unofficial happiness – when conventional explanations no longer sustain life;

• That’s also when comparisons totally get lost in thoughts, never finding their way back;

• When one walks out of the cave, naked, aware it wasn't a philosophical monument;

• When one has finally ran out of company policies meant to respond to modern needs;

• Or when love-starved proponents of classical conditioning no longer lust for self-inflicted behavior modifications;

• In other words, when, without coercion, we fall into inscrutable rapture, effortlessly accountable as the custodians of wondrous secret sounds. Like rediscovered ancient texts we thought had vanished. So glad they haven't forsaken us.

By your side, I’ll reach a mood of meaningfulness best rendered by invisible writing. Fully illustrated by evanescent, volatile babbling.

It’s certainly going to be a splendid opportunity: Riding on a self-induced phenomenal flux, an avalanche of gesturing effects - realized abstractions to be committed to my burgeoning memory. Having the good sense of remaining vulnerable.

Entertaining a broad perspective capable of universalizing a blueprint for picturesque miracles

Among agile angels dispatched on cement and asphalt, I'll try to lose myself without a shiver of superstition. Pure nerves and intimate, pulsing inner voices racing to test the sheer essence of what reversed maximum performance can be like.

Fundamental absurdities assessing the intelligence of an emotion-based issue.

The latent tendencies of healing, and rightly so, thrown outside the influence of prosaic and impotent coping mechanisms.

Eager to cuddle. No distress to alleviate. No permanent trails left. Unglamorously blazing at the prospect of striking a profound chord, I suppose, in the midst of a ragged and throaty laughter.

The appearance of creation crossing my mind, referring to all epochs, cycles, cosmic portals, even a plurality of worlds, if the vision stays in visual contact.

You, little ones, in fully coalesced substances, edgeless, clearly with patience learning how to moon walk as if it was nothing more than a slight accidental promise.

Laolao