Ok, here goes. I think one of the most difficult things to do in terms of communication with others is to be able to completely describe moments where we feel either fantastic or at our most miserable. To fully be able to express a moment or a feeling at either end of the emotional spectrum, to really capture something so personal and make it relatable to others is tough if not impossible.
This is why writers often use metaphors to bridge this gap, to create a relationship with the reader where words themselves can't do the job. So this entry ends with the best metaphor I could come up with, but even that is ultimately personal and likely not fully understandable. Although it may be funny at least.
I would like to share the euphoria I felt a few Saturdays ago in Malaga, on Malagueta Beach. Knowing full well this will scarcely do it justice, here it goes anyway...
The time was about 8:45am.
The air was so much more than just the temperature, it was the perfect confluence of humidity, fresh air and warmth.
The light was such that you could see everything in more than 3-D (maybe 4-D)? But enough mist was being carried off the top of the waves that it gave objects in the distance a mystical haze.
The waves were rolling in and made that steady hum and hiss that we know so well but don't hear nearly often enough.
The breakfast of choice was yogurt, peanut butter on rye crackers, an apple and a fruit juice.
The smell was salty, but that's about the lamest description there is. It was the smell of vacation, the anti-smell of the city... but how else do you describe salty?
There were maybe four other people scattered along the entire two-kilometer piece of coastline - a fisherman, a brave swimmer, and a couple of dog-walkers, along with the odd jogger on the boardwalk. Each of us, I think, were in our own world.
In front of me, the sand was freshly groomed and barely dry - to me a sight just as exciting as fresh powder or groomed tracks are to a skier.
Behind me, the towering cranes of the Port of Malaga stood idle, their red and blue colours lit up by the sun rising down the coastline.
And the feeling... this is where it becomes near impossible to write. It was a perfect, perfect, perfect morning. One that you want to take a bite out of or put in your pocket and take home with you.
The whole thing was very Christy Turlington to me. My mild obsession since the late 80's, who seems to fit here somehow, is the best metaphor I can come up with to describe that morning. Perfect (to me), timeless, beautiful, unattainable. (And I'm ok with that. Although if Ed Burns mysteriously disappears someday, I know nothing).
Some things aren't meant to be attained or consumed - just admired and appreciated.