Moving at a precise rhythmic movement and flow, they congeal at every encounter. Through every random mishap or off-chance argument they experience together, no matter the day, it’s this brief moment, standing lone wolf as the trump card, that monumentally showcases a human’s greatest need and most astounding gift: love. What matters to them most in life isn’t the auto-swerving rush of life’s temptations, or the materialistic grab of the obsessive, nor is it the craven crying of uselessness or self-pity masked in self-indulgence. What matters to them is strictly essentials, the everyday fuel that drives us to confidently stick it to life instead of the other way around.
Looking through the glass, as if I’m merely a spectator, I sometimes think I’m just another person throwing away money for the price of an admission ticket, somehow hoping that one day I’ll get invited on stage to enter this haven and escape the void. But if I’ve learned anything up to this point, it’s this: that invitation won’t just magically appear. If there’s an invitation, it’s not a golden ticket packaged into a synthesized chocolate bar, or a publishers clearing house man knocking on my door; it’s a mental invitation, waiting to be opened after the grind, waiting to be exposed after self-enlightenment, waiting to be snatched by a head full of posivibes freely fluttering like a swarm of Lampyridae.
The couple I speak of comes in all forms. Some of them I know, some of them are strangers and some of them are idolized. No matter the case, they are a perfectly crafted gardenia, emitting the most beautiful glow, speaking in the most decadent of cadences. They are, in the most intriguing of sorts, living above the sphere of influence, freely floating above the blur.