Clumsy Beautiful

It’s kind of a really nice day. He decides to go for a walk around the block. On the side of the road he sees a woman’s tennis shoe filled with leaves, and it fills him with inexplicable sadness. He walks down his side street, and sees striking colours in the faces of the people around him. Details in these beautiful brick walls and weeds that he must have passes every day and never noticed. The air smells different, brighter somehow. And the currents are beautiful and strange and vivid and the sun is warming his face, and the world is clumsy and beautiful and new. And it’s as though he’s been sleepwalking for god knows how long. Something has violently shaken him awake. His bathmats are gorgeous. The grain patterns in his cheap wood cabinets vibrate something deep within him. He’s fascinated by the way his paper towels drink water. He’s never really appreciated these things. All this detail he’s never noticed. He’s alive. 
The stars rattle him to the core. These lights have travelled for tens of millions of years just to reach him at this moment, and somewhere far away, our own sun looks just like one of these. How many of the stars no longer even existed, but whose ancient light is just reaching him now? An impression from a ghost. An amazing, infinite time machine every night above his head that he’s ignored for most of his life. He wants to stop people in the street and say:
Isn’t this amazing? Isn’t everything amazing?