A little boy just rode by the window where I sit on a small makeshift bicycle. All I caught from the streak he made as he zoomed by was the look on his face, which caught into focus in my eye for a brief second. It wasn’t joy. Nor was it satisfaction. No… it was pure, unadulterated control over the world, as if for that instant he was the king of this planet and couldn’t give less of a damn about what happened to it. It’s the kind of look grown men get when they manage to place a small ball into a giant net with their feet, or slap a ball outside of a rounded field with an oddly shaped bat. His face reflected the feeling anyone gets when, at the moment of success, we’re taken from the earth and set down upon a small surfboard and told to ride life’s wave as strong and as hard as we can. Because in that precise moment, this world is ours.

It made me smile broadly, actually, truth be told it made me laugh aloud. His happiness was palpable, and I had to cover my mouth to hide my own embarrassment at enjoying his moment as a quiet, voyeuristic observer. He’ll never know that he had a small admirer, or perhaps even a follower of his triumph. His was the kind of instant we strive for in life, where nothing else matters, and the passing of time becomes nothing more than the illusion it actually is. It deserves recognition, but only silent recognition… for any other sort of celebration only serves to disturb its purity and earnestness.

When flirtations with life yield such an incredible result, the best action to take is to just let the wind blow into your open mouth and squinted eyes, hold on to the handlebars for dear life, and call out to the clouds with a voice emanating deep within.