Soft in the head.

I think I'm a little bit in love with the world at the moment. That, or I've gone a bit soft in the head. Things seem crisper all of a sudden. Cleaner. I walked to work this morning with thin sunshine dripping around me into cracks into the footpath, breathing out and watching my breath evaporate. Watching cold puffs of vapour float into a blue, blue sky. I'm one step away from breaking into song.

Strangers on the tram are making me melt, a little bit. Little old men telling jokes, and adolescent boys romping like baby seals. I'm flirting with all my friends. I'm newly infatuated with the way you tell a joke, or your penchant for math-rock, or that thing you do with your hair when you're concentrating. I want to buy you a coffee, and smell the back of your neck. I'm sorry if it's disturbing you. It's disturbing me a bit as well.

Being relatively cynical, I'm not really prepared for those days when the world becomes overwhelming and visceral and intimate. How does it happen that you wake up one day, and the rain beating against your window seems comforting, not inconvenient? That out of nowhere you get the urge to crush grass between your fingers until you are carrying that wet, ripe smell on your skin all day? It's like all the little details that bad poets glorify in soggy verse are giving me soft, mushy hugs, and it's heartening and vaguely terrifying.

Vaguely terrifying, because every time I get this feeling, I seem to feel the need to analyse it to death - to pin it down, like a butterfly, and dissect it with wings still fluttering. I'm scared that I'm unable to simply accept that sometimes I'm enamoured of the world, intoxicated by being able to cherry-pick small moments of pleasure from my everyday surroundings. It's easier to accept an unexpected rough patch, a string of bad days, because for some reason the vastness of lived experience doesn't seem so overwhelming to me when I'm limp-haired and cranky and slumped beneath a doona. But I'm trying, at the risk of sounding like some reformed self-help book cynic, to just go with it - to write cheesily infatuated odes to beauty on the internet, to take the time to walk to work, to buy you coffee and tell you I didn't mean it about smelling your neck, or at least not in a creepy way.

Because this feeling? It's fucking fantastic. And if I look back in a month's time and want to hit myself with the misanthropy stick, so be it. I am putting it out there - I am in love with you, world. You and your bad-poet plethora of beautiful details. Also? Your hair is pretty. Call me.