Something Is Called Elation

When I was somewhere else
I would walk down streets in the dark at night.

When I was somewhere else
I would get lost and not mind and
just be content that I was somewhere
and moving and that was OK.

When I was somewhere else
everything was new and beautiful and
I smelled the air around me and
I noticed small things around me
like metal fountains with leaky faucets
and front doors to old buildings,
shiny round brass knobs,
ink-black holes for brass keys
never lost and never forgotten.

When I was somewhere else
I would walk through markets in open plazas,
the sky would be big and
the buildings big too and tall and
sometimes I would think
I was something really small
moving through something
much larger than me,
like a mouse between walls
and I didn’t know if I was moving right
or moving wrong
but what did it matter
when I wandered in motion and
always in motion.
I felt something for a while
and that something is called elation.

When I was somewhere else
I would sometimes ride a bicycle through
towns and cities on cobblestone streets,
over canals and on bridges
alone and sometimes not but
in groups moving like fish do
except through streets riding to work or school
or back home to rest and eat
and go to bed to fall asleep.
I would ride with people I had recently met
or already knew and
we rode fast and wouldn’t fall
and we would laugh and laugh really hard
until we couldn’t breathe
and it was nice to pedal
with the sand and ocean along side of us,
the birds singing in their nests
high up in their trees.

When I was somewhere else
it felt like falling forward
when missing a step and
it was a little scary but a little exhilarating.
It made me feel one, whole, or complete
like when something’s missing and
you don’t know what
until you leave to find it
on a long journey, a long road
and you have no idea
when you’ll be home.