Sitting on a bus in transit, Thursday afternoon in a November-flavoured Burlington - gawking stupidly out the window at all the snow that's too bare to be magical, and serves only to remind me that it's cold outside - listening to Shane Koyczan be better than me on my iPod, when a really ugly kid walks on the bus, eyes glazed over, teeth gnashing like a tiny pink orc. He's followed by his Dad, also pretty ugly, Maple Leafs swag bundling up the expression that screams from cracked smiles "I've accepted my station in life".
All I can think at this moment is - "Why is my mind so ugly today?"
It must have been a shitty day.
For my eyes to be met by nature's painted wonders, my ears to be filled with one of my favourite poets, and my space to have included the "I don't give a fuck" bond between a father and son - and for me to focus it all on the aesthetic of a cynical heart that doesn't often belong to me.
This world deserves better.
This day deserves better.
I deserve better.
So I call it beautiful.
I call it beautiful so many times that the words have dried the oceans of linguistic history until three drops remain
And like peeling hardened black crust from the open wound of a pool of fire, my eyes sting to remember the flavour of oxygen in their presence, sunlight re-announcing its existence as if, for just a moment, the entire world was looking the other way, this place danced in echoes of love and history, swirled in the deft flick of God's Bob Ross fan brush as if to create a happy little me who looks lonely and could use some friends, so here are a bunch of images to remind him just what this place is.
These precious moments flash like little wooden soldiers with red caps, our matchstick existence so bright and blessed that any seconds spent idling on the charred husk of our aftermath seems insulting to the warmth we've shared.
So burn brilliant, touch your beauty to those three drops and evaporate this outlook on life so the rest of us can inhale your positivity.
Life is beautiful. Breathe it in.