13
" The New York sidewalk led us along a little corner park rimmed with yellow-orange and violet pansies that seemed to be smiling, their faces upturned, and past a bagel shop that smelled of sesame and salt, delicious warm air. We passed an empty wine bar with a pink chandelier, whimsical and dim inside, and a neighborhood diner with its blue neon sign huge and lit up, little white line-cook hats—the city seemed in my vision like a multifaceted gem, spectacular. I wished I could keep everything I witnessed like a photograph, to forever hold this electric aliveness. The colors of the flowers and the clothing were crisp and rosy, hyper-bright against the subdued sun-drenched pigments of the streets and the brick buildings, all seeming faded, softer than real. Pops of coral and red—a scarf, a lady’s lips—were pops of life. "
― Aspen Matis , Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir
17
" On our first afternoon on the trail, the branches bare, two fireflies appeared in the same instant. The lightning bugs twirled sparks and squiggles of pure yellow gold, sometimes taking turns and sometimes harmonizing, their air-flecking fine as precious metal—blinking close, and then diverging, as if they were gently dotting the path of a conversation. They danced in reality; we followed the movement of one spark.
I felt connected to the luminescent creatures, my mind airborne with them. Trails enabled me to better see the world, to notice fine aspects invisible from an airplane, the most basic things we miss. Seeing life at a pace at which you can actually observe nuance, the speed of stepping, the beautiful inspiring texture of “plain” reality becomes visible—God smiling in the detail. "
― Aspen Matis , Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir
18
" We had good reason to be anxious, beginning anew without a clue or map, but on our backs in that unnatural whiteness, we lay peaceful as waterfront sunbathers. Our plan was loose and as undefined as the path across a beach—any route seemed possible, all effective in crossing. And a calm energy lit my heart, perceptible in my movements, which seemed slower.
Justin switched off the light; momentarily spooked, I wanted to hear his voice. I spoke into dim space: “I bet you’ll do big things here too—”
“I never want to work again,” he cut me off, his unexpected decree like stardust in the darkness. For a moment, the blankness of New York’s canvas took on an energetic tone of backstage butterflies. "
― Aspen Matis , Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir
