Stories can’t lose their luster if we’re constantly living them, right?
If I hold my breath, I feel like I’m sixteen again, seeing everything for the first time — before I knew the world asked for just about as much as it gave. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, if we look hard enough, we might find something that brings that feeling back.
That’s how you know it’s powerful; art that makes you feel. Makes you forget realities and focus on idealism, on small pockets of stillness and rage that bleed together into something called youth growth.
I wish I could hold on to it forever. Maybe that just means I’ll have to live in it again.