as the day turns into night, the sound of children’s euphoria takes me back to when I laughed like them. laughed, cried, existed like them. to days that seem much more real than the bed I’m sitting on; when I could be myself, knowing what that meant. along with these memories, though they are not quite that — I don’t see them, but feel them wrapping around my bones — along with them comes the recurring realization that I am no longer uncarved wood. I go on no longer feeling the ground and breathing the air and accepting blindly all the variables of living, despite seeing beauty in those things more often and more honestly than when thinking meant nothing beyond colors and shapes, because that beauty comes from a form of analysis that strips away any hint of authenticity that I am still able to find in the now. I hear them, the children, and the feeling that comes over me could be called nostalgia, but perhaps it shouldn’t. it fills my mind and I can almost hold it for a second, but short-lived as it is I then watch it go wherever it is it goes... and stays, until the sound of the ice cream truck enters my room on a pink evening or the cake smells like grandma’s house. the feeling comes and takes me away from a moment that will never be as good, simply because it is here.