There are moments that are less like reality and more like floating. Those fleeting flakes of existence lie somewhere off the realm of normalcy. They are real-life that has been soaked in a movie and delineated like a glossy film photograph. 

They are the sound of clickity shoe heels on an art gallery floor. Hard firm plastic upon the cool marble floor. Your footsteps, one after another, tap tap tap, in rapid succession. You spy a perfectly pretty picture on the painted wall, and your footsteps race to catch up with the speed of your thoughts. 

They are the shape of a mouth after the final line of a film is said, and then the screen fades to black. Your brilliant brain is just beginning to make sense of the esoteric ending and you want to scream your love for the film quite literally. No one is going to listen though, and part of you doesn’t want anyone to. Your ephemeral reaction is just for you. 

They are the metallic purple nail polish gliding over fingernails. You finish the last stroke of your pinky; it is painted by your left hand, so it isn’t as neat and nice as the other nine. Still, unperturbed, you sit in your room, admiring your handiwork. The soft light of Artemis illuminates your fingers, and they sparkle in tandem with your smile. 

They are a bow taken while people stand before you clapping. You’re supposed to be reveling in your success but all you can focus on is your name being said by the voices of people you’ve never spoken to before. Of all things that could be flying through your brain—joy, pride, love, or regret—all you can focus on is, that for a single second, you were the complete source of people’s attention. For maybe just a millisecond, you were all they thought about. What an odd notion, you think, and you curtsey.

You are writing and writing and writing while, in the background, an artist covers a familiar song. Your creativity is like a tumultuous ocean, and you have the power to walk on water. Whatever you touch is calmed if only for a second. But you are so small, and the ocean is so big. Somewhere in your brain, you think of how much work has gone into the song you are listening to. People had to write, record, and produce the original, then someone else had to record the cover and produce it, and someone had to make it available for you to listen to. You start to think that maybe there’s a correlation between that writing and your current writing. Maybe there’s a deep connection, a superb simile your brain could create, but then, as soon as the thought appears, it is swept away by a wave.

They are swinging on a November night. The cold breath of winter isn’t quite there yet, but you can feel his icy whispers greeting you, prophesizing his nearing return. But you ignore his frosty, midnight murmur and let your legs pump you higher, higher, higher off the ground. 

These moments are the hidden ones. They aren’t factory-made or groomed to be great by planners and countdowns and hoping and waiting and wishing. They are hidden, stuffed in between the cracks of the everyday normal. They are so meaningless and minuscule, but maybe that’s why they matter. The little, artistic times are the ones that have a simple, bright beauty, unfiltered by a greater purpose. They just are. 

They are the moments where life happens.