The people of Austin are healthy. I watch them speak kindly to strangers in coffee shops. I see a man approach a woman to tell her about the free yoga sessions he hosts. She smiles and thanks him.
I watch people biking in the park, laughing in the sun. A man walks past where I'm sitting and smiles. "Great place to read," he says and gestures at the book in my hand.
It is a great place. Caressed by a breeze, with the gentle sounds of the Colorado river rushing by, I'm sitting under the giant boughs of a giant tree much older than I am. Speckles of sunlight dance across the pages of my book.
You can never recreate the moment. If this is true, what's the purpose of recording the details? Some people love the details. They seek understanding in details and believe details will lead them to grasp the greater concept. I suppose maybe that's the purpose of recording them for many people. Recording the details of your life is coming one step closer to understanding it.
The very first time I am anywhere beautiful, I am in love with it. I walk around in a state of constant awe at the smallest of trivialities; the way the sky moves, the plants and doors and sidewalk cracks. The second time I go anywhere beautiful, it's nothing like the first. The second time, I yearn to recreate the feeling that I've just discovered something new, but it cannot be new again. I am still learning how to find beauty in the familiar.
I'm not sure whether it's healthy to so incessantly and relentlessly seek new experiences, but this yearning is a part of me and possibly an important part. It is certainly one that I cannot currently deny.