Whence does it hail from,
the magic that feeds those moments?
Those moments when the breath catches in the throat,
when an internal grin, rising from within,
transforms into an external one;
yielding to the fierce exultation
brought on by this mysterious magic of the mind,
of the self,
of which I speak.
Those moments when you run on nothing but impulse,
the guidance of aught besides whim, the wind, and what's inside;
when control is relinquished
to the hand that resides within and around us all –
the hand of capricious fate;
allowing us to give in to ourselves,
to our true individual nature.
What ethereal force, then,
unlocks these brief gates, throws open wide the door,
you, coming finally to the fore?
Whatever the source, wherever its home,
I remain grateful;
those moments, when we stand naked before the world
and we spit –
when our core breaks through the crust
and it shines –
that's our salvation.