There is nothing more wonderful than a sunny day. I love the way each sunbeam caresses my face with a familiarity that almost strikes me by surprise. I love the way silent breezes play with strands of my hair, curling and twisting my hair even more. I now completely understand the naturalistic musings of the great romantic poets; Walt Whitman is now a kindred spirit. His words now race through me as if they had replaced my own blood. And, now, I am suddenly inspired to write poetry; I can already feel the awkward rhyme schemes forming in my head. I then realize that I cannot write poetry.
So, I think of acoustic guitars and soft-playing pianos delicately accenting this beautiful day. Each crescendo starts to coordinate with my inhaling; each staccato note seems to punctuate my heart-beat. I am suddenly inspired to sing along to the sounds of nature; I open my mouth and let each note ring proudly. I then realize that I can't carry a note.
So, I switch my thoughts to ballet. I think of how a prima ballerina could describe this moment perfectly with a flick of the wrist. I lift my arms towards the sun, hoping to connect with nature, and I trip. I have no balance. For the moment, I am crestfallen. How will I re-live this moment in the future? And, then, realization came barreling down upon me. I shouldn't focus so much on the future when there is so much in the present.
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