Blue Ridge Mountains

“It’s like this– if you were standing on the top of a parking garage in the middle of a Southern city with the crisp, creeping, air of a premature winter biting at your cheeks and your hands start to feel number than they’ve ever felt. Your hands are number than you’ve ever felt them, and this scares you in a similar way the city has scared you, only it scares you more because they are YOUR hands. So you lift them up to your face and curl each finger parallel to your vision-centimemters from your eyes and they continue to move without color. There is no color but they are moving-that must be a good sign. And while each finger dances the way your mind conducts it to dance, nothing but blue makes up the background. It’s not an invented sort of blue–it’s not one an artist could ever possibly reproduce. The Blue Ridge Mountains stand behind your fingers, and you’re distracted from the numbness. How could you be anything but distracted by such a sight? It no longer matters that you are numb because something greater stands in front of you, the way it has stood even before you existed. You stand there on the roof of a parking garage in a Southern city, and you realize there is something greater than your numbness. And you think of only one other person you wish you could share such a sight with…” “That sounds romantic. How is that heartbreaking?” “It’s […]

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