I think I am glowing; glowing with an irrepressible light from within. It is not the bonfire sort of blinding blaze, but a firefly kind of soft illumination, pulsing and sweetly alluring.
It is true that we are beautiful when we are happy. And I am irrevocably blithe; I am drinking a mug of pure contentment snuggled in the arms of my best friends’ love and listening to the drip-dripping of the rain of everything-that-has-been-going-on-since-last-summer. I feel so pretty that I am golden.
No. We, we are golden; we are such incandescent specimens that even time wants to soak in our aura, holding its breath and prickling its ears to our stories pour out like sparkling juice over our table and floods the place that I am intoxicated by them.
And time has stopped for us, has been for a while, because its promiscuous fingers of change have not brush across either of us; we are still the people we were four years ago, back when our extraordinariness were dampened and dulled by ugly blue pinafores and puke-green pants. For this, I feel immensely blessed. Sure, some of our hair styles have taken to metamorphosing into various forms, some of us have picked up detestable habits, and some of our fashion sense have quirked a few notch weirder, but essentially we are still the same loud, excitable maniacs in our own rights, like amplified guitars that are not tuned correctly, yet still crash headlong through our song.
I do not need to think. I AM glowing. Because, finally, I am home.
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