Then you tell me...
What is it when every sinew screams "LIFE!"? What kind of bizarre place in life have you reached when adrenaline tastes like sugar, when hate just howls "Live" as a motivator, and the feel of grass beneath your feet is the fulfillment of raw sensation, a reconnection to this from which you had always believed yourself jaded. There is a smell on the breeze that is not you, not her, but something far off that makes your eyes devolve to blurry vision, makes your brain lose sight, lose hearing, embrace this smell and the touch that nuzzles you from the air. Breathe in thick, heavy gasps of autumn air and remember the leaves of seven thousand years ago, unchanged from the ones that lie in the curb or paw at your boots from their squished existence on the asphalt, marvel at the imperviousness of leaves and the split-seconds of time travel. What is this when bitterness is not bitter, when death of sacred things is not deadly, when resolution of the old tastes as sweet as grasping a thick part of her red hair in my hands or tracing the lining of her jaw with my kisses? Where is that place that you stand from to tell me I am out of my mind? There is no regret here on this plain of Life Sensation, nothing but the urge to trace every lining of my skin that hums with electricity, to excite electrons, to force neutrons to choose a side, to grasp the wind by the mane, heed your touch, and move at the speed of a whisper to your body lying back against a tree.