Euphoria’s like this feeling … when a writer ditches his literary suit and writes for the heck of it; when his writing bone’s aching for him to bleed some words on that paper, man. Euphoria. It’s like when you’re Andy from Shawshank Redemption and the music’s playing in your head even when you’re locked up in solitary. I don’t know, man, it’s this feeling where you’re sitting in the dark and your jaw’s aching from smiling all the way to your ears and there’s tears … of relief and wonder, mind you, not of sadness and shit.

Moment. The moment. This moment, I’m telling you, man; it’s like, you’re searching, rushing through life and shit, going from milestone to milestone at breakneck speed waiting for that next big thing to happen, that pizzazz that everyone’s craving for … and then you find it out that it was there all along, tucked in those creases of your brain where you never thought to look in your hurry.

Roots?

Everyone has roots.

That’s where euphoria is; that buried essence under your surface– and you note it that you are the surface as well as that what is underneath, just like you’re the storm as well as the bringer of it–is who you are, amongst other things. And just … those floodgates, man, they seep, they breach, and then its a flood, alright, and God Almighty, it’s one heck of a flood of … emotions?

And your fears? Your anxieties? Those things that you dread of happening? Your past guilt? All those unpleasant memories? They’re still there but like white noise fuzzed out all the way to the lowest volume — some old television in a faraway land: there but insignificant for the time. As well as they should be. Why? You’re down to roots, leaving the surface, and there’s solace underground, except for a faint humming of a subway in some other underground, but don’t worry about that. For noise to be completely cut off from your life, you’d have to be deaf. For those who don’t want to be deaf, learn how to mute it; it’s awesome.

Emotions, and mostly all of them good and comfy: you have your garden variety nostalgia, your rosebush innocence, your flowerbed happiness, and that farmer’s market feeling of being free of tension — that feeling you only get when you’re the first one at that metaphoric farmer’s market, six in the morning when the oceanside gulls are still cawing and the sun’s a distant lazy bastard struggling to come up from behind the seas, and the moon’s sorta taunting him for being a couch potato, and everything is blue but it is a happy blue and not a sad blue … Oh, man.

Drugs?

Nah. I ain’t ever done drugs. And euphoria of the roots, of the floodgate feelings, it comes from being truly free and not being unsacredly consecrated with mood addlers. It’s … when you look behind you and see the road you’ve walked on and look ahead and see there’s more of it to walk, but this place right here is a good place as any to stay and enjoy the view for a while, man.

So you stay. The ocean breathes, and with it you, deep in, deeper out, and tears become one with the body of the sea, and in there lies your immortality; you are now the universe just as much as the universe is you. You’ve left this memento of emotions so seamlessly; you can surely go and finish that first draft and send it to that magazine. The ocean never rejects precious tears; just those fake ones that hoes on reality television cry.

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