The story.

I want to be the story instead of the ending.
I love those chilled, high collar jacket mornings when your fingers don't quite work right.
Be honest now, you crave it. How your bones feel old and your spirit young.
Your chattering teethed smiles glinting at a vacant sky.
In a world so open, so blue and green, why don't we feel free?
I guess that's why we stow ourselves away in back country.
Places where our breathe shows gray in the morning and our horses have a hump in their back.
Sage covered hills, cliff rock and aspens all pumping into our veins.
There's a feeling out there, it's something special.
Almost an addiction.
Once you've felt it and the chills that slither down your spine, there is no going back.
Something about it changes what you see in everything else.
Every other aspect of the world is a little bit different now.
It gives weight to the little things.
Like cold air in tight lungs, hot coffee and sweaters covered in horse hair.
We are sunrises and sunsets.
Nothing more.
We are vibrant and gold, amazing and jaw dropping.
But in the end we are just temporary.
Beauty is not hard to find.
Maybe it's just hard to recognize.
Or maybe the word "beauty" is simply overused.
But it's there, look for it.

Xoxo, Gussie