It was a foggy day, the dense clouds covered the gem of a town in a blanket of comfort and awe.
He ran and ran, step after step, through the street he loved with all his heart. Among the houses that marked four years of stupendous youth, and innocent joy.
The waves washed in and out, the fog lingered on his clothes, on his skin, and on the cliffs that surrounded him.
It was all perfect, everything.
People swayed in the distance on boards. Sat on the bluffs, on the sand, in the water.
It was all alive. It always was.
He ran and ran, walked some, breathed some, and thought some.
“Perfection. Bliss. This is everything.”
He waved hello to a resident glancing at the beach, and walked underneath a cove of trees.
It was raining. Little drops of dew, condensation built up to the brim of release just as his mind was filled with droplets of joy. He looked up, stared, smiled. A drew drop hit him on the head. Like a reassuring pat of a friend, of an over-seer, saying “This is for you, this is your happiness, it’s yours and it’s theirs, it’s theirs and yours. Cherish it.”
He continued to walk along the cliffs, back to his house. A little cave in a community of paradise.
People playing volleyball. People in houses. People biking. People walking. The sound of live music and the murmur of a party.
His heart screamed, his mind laughed, his body floated among the foggy clouds in total, utter bliss.
Even the static from the telephone wires cued a sense of joy. A sense of comfort. A sense of belonging.
This was home.
And it always would be.
Written in Isla Vista, California, U.S.A.