When does the matter that floats softly at the top of our consciousness become something tangible? When do the dreams, like rays of sun observed from the bottom of a deep pool of water, make exodus into our bloodstream as an entire aspect of who we are?

Perhaps it is something that we find in the warm sand with our fingertips, that our body conforms to like the shape of a lover. Perhaps it is when the flood in our mind becomes the genesis of a sea, stretching and spilling and white waves rising and crashing, an ebullient ocean.

Do we see what we want in the stars? Or do we feel it chill our skin like a midnight breeze? Do we absorb it into ourselves as a deep breath? Do we witness it as an efflorescence in silence?

I believe it is the space between the leaves that holds our secrets. Our every whisper is kept safe nestles between every blade of grass and every budding flower. But when these things lay down their weary heads to join winter, what breathes new life into them in spring?

When our tears are collected into the rain, they are born again, in the thick air and the clouded sky. When we receive every breath, every ribbon of light, every chill, every shock, every touch into our bodies, there is something invisible, intangible that enters us. To the wise only is it detectable, to those who love only is it accessible. It is the spirit of man. Every tear, laugh, bead of salty sweat. Every pain, every eternal joy that fills us. And on a rare, delicate occasion, it can enter us and satisfy us, a silent efflorescence.