He relished these quiet moments...
...these reflective moments
spent in such peculiar combinations of circumstances.
The way his abstracted familiarity with his own past
mixed with his relaxed appreciation of the ever-present sensation
of new possibilities within each moment.
because the moments he loved to subconsciously create for himself
weren't just
old, new,
and infinite
simultaneously
they were aesthetically arresting
and he appreciated all the irreproducible details.
Somehow he could manage, for a few seconds
of instant eternity,
To extract a thrilling essence from the marrow of mundanity.
seemingly creating something extraordinary
out of nothing in particular.
If this was not what it felt like to be fully aware one was alive,
he could not imagine any other experience that would.
But just as unexpectedly as the feeling had arrived,
it quietly stepped out the back door
and was gone.
And even though he was left with no special memento
or record of his time,
he had a vague sense of certainty that
what he could not hold onto
would never be far off,
and even with no promise to be found again,
somehow, it could never be lost.
