A first hand account of contentment...

It's cooling off, and I'm gazing westward. 

The sky is lit like an impressionist painting. Colors everywhere, shooting off in rays of light.

I can hear at least four different kinds of birds, that I can't identify. 

Bird calls, that's a gap in my knowledge that I'll fill some day. I'd rather know bird calls than know French. 

I don't know either. 

I can feel the tenseness leaving my shoulders. I feel light, like I'm floating. Like I'm filled with helium. I have too many cares tonight. I brought the office home, but now it's floating away. I can barely feel my body -- I'm not sure how I keep typing...

I can feel the heat radiating off of my arms. I feel like I haven't blinked for hours. I'm not sure I can anymore. I don't want to miss anything. God is painting tonight. 

I can't remember what I was so tense about. Frankly, I'm not sure I can remember my own name at this point. 

The reds are getting redder. The sky reminds me of cotton candy and rainbow sherbet. 

If you set cotton candy and sherbet on fire. 

I can no longer feel the heat. I'm so cool, the mosquitos can't find me. 

I think I'm still breathing.

Is this nirvana?

No, I'm pretty sure it's still Farmington. 

Pretty sure. 

I can't tell where the sky ends. 

I know this feeling. It's happiness. It's beauty. It's all the things I live for. 

I wish I had my ukulele.

The sky is lit like an expensive sapphire now. The blue is deep and brilliant. The remaining sunlit clouds are the deepest yet -- they linger like the last dying coals of a campfire. 

I don't know how long I've been here, and I know the spell is about to break, but it's good to have seen the masterpiece. It's good to be present in the moment. 

I am content.