I step outside the house for the first time since arriving.
It’s just past ten, and the warm, damp, metallic ait contrasts against the controlled weather of the inside.
The difference shocks me, but it’s new, and feels right against my face.
I stumble and cross legs over square stepping stone path over to the driveway, where I immediately slouch against the car.
I lean there for a moment, staring at the abnormally bright moon, wondering why in the heavens would it do such a thing.
Was tonight special?
Was it because I had finally left the house, and felt the untouched air?
It was a moment for me, at least.
It was the moment I let go of my chronic laziness, chronically lulling me into a monotonous apathy, whose fleeting tendrils still linger on my soul.
I would do anything to be at that minute again, that exact time when I felt I could be more than I was, even though I thought I was enough.
But now, here I am, reflecting upon this sudden time as if it was something special, when I could have done it whenever it was needed, but for some reason I did it at that moment, and that reason was nothing.
Nothing in the universe could have explained why I did it at that time, that warm, musty evening, in the suburbia of the city, besides the fact that I did, I did do it.
And thats all that matters.