We can try, those of us inclined to fits of textual ambition, to capture in the coils of syntax that most potent and refined essence of the heartfelt. Emotions, though, derive from the instants of our experiences, do they not? They can linger on to become moods -- yet they hit us not in the writhing strikes of blue-white lightning or the rumbling dissolution of thunder, but in the crack that joins the two as the sky is split.
All of this is to say: fate bestowed upon me a hug, this morning. A soft and enduring embrace that carried me in and out of languidly erratic slumber -- and that, with each surfacing and submersion, filled my very being with contentment, exaltation, and incredulity.
And having expended so many quarrels of phrasing and vocabulary, the best I can hope for is that you have felt this same thing, and that my volleys of poetic declamation here have recalled it to you. Nothing within my verbal capacity can hope to bring real understanding of my morning's blissful entwinement to readers who have not already lived such moments of their own.
I can express, but I cannot enlighten anyone to the sun-warmed stones of those emotions, so hot and solid and unyielding in their reliability.
When you hold someone you love, only that connection itself is sufficient to communicate its blissful merits.
