There is something beautiful here. A certain beauty that comes from letting things be, from letting things grow and grow old. Allowing a history to develop just on the sidewalk outside your house or the wall holding your sloping front yard in place. I have arrived to find everything exactly where I left it last, and everyone as lovely as ever. Funny how time feels as if I spliced myself from then to now, like I never left, never missed a beat. How is it possible to feel both here and there at all times, to feel as if I could shift my existence so seamlessly. I think it has something to do with the light, the way it filters through the thick trees and makes shadows on the leaves. I think it has a lot to do with the air and the way it sits on my skin. The actual tangible corners that I have stood on so many times that at twenty five feel and look a lot like the did at eighteen. Why am I surprised by the green every time as if I didn’t know these colors could exist in such variance. What beauty. Maybe it is the Romantic in me but I feel closer to something life like.