blurring the lines

Wednesday evening I was out walking the streets of Sonobe, specifically along a darkish back lane that runs past a rice field. There was no one around, and the air was just perfectly cool and fresh. I looked up at the beautiful night sky, which was all a-glitter with autumn stars, and its expanse stretched away and away before me until my breath caught in my lungs and I felt that if I took off running, I could leap into the air and fly up into the heavens.

It was a giddy feeling, one that was almost convincing despite the laws of physics, and for a powerful moment I desperately wished that I was asleep and dreaming, because if it was a dream I surely could fly away like I wanted to. I thought my chest might burst with the bittersweet longing of a caged bird. It was simultaneously suffocating and invigorating.

This was the song I was listening to at the time. The beginning sounds of stars and bubbles and Little Nemo. But beyond that, you must listen to the whole thing to understand my perfect feeling of lift off, the liberating sprint down the starlit lane and the exact moment when sneakers leave pavement up into the blue-black-purple night.