It is the beaches, and the city, and the nature, and how this place turns my cumulus dreams into granite reality. Everything spills from my mind, my waterfall mind, and everything is mine and my pillow imagination. It is how everything is everything I've always dreamed about.
It is how everything is the same in different ways. It is the glamour and the size, the glitter and the only thirty dollars I have (spent on gifts for my best friends, miles and miles away), the everyday coffee that is never quite right and the clothes and plastic bags. Oh! so many clothes and plastic bags.
It is how I can read here, read and only read. It is the different worlds that spin and take turns inside the bones of where I think. It is how this place has put so many universes inside my mind.
It is how far I am from everyone I know and how close I am to everyone I am unfamiliar with. It is how here this is a different culture and different diction and different colored skin and lips and eyelids. It is how there is blonde here, that didn't have to turn blonde. It is how I bump shoulders with people I have nothing in common with, people who do not have my blood in their veins or my language on their tongues. It is how I am different here and yet the same, for we are all melting under the sun we share with the world. It is how I've managed to push myself inside a crowd that takes me in, that absorbs me, like a sponge.
It is how close I am to the music I love and the movies I adore and the musicians and actors and actresses I look at with different eyes. It is how close I am to seeing my favorite things before my eyes, my favorite people right beside me. Them, and all their bones and all the blood that swishes in their bodies, and their voices that I am too familiar with except with no microphone and no speakers. It is how much it could've been real and natural. It is how this place makes them real and not just people I have to look at through a screen.
It is how the sun sets here too late, and so everyone is awake when the sun is awake, and sleeping is a hard thing to do when the city I rest my head upon is alive with the stars and there is still too many things to do.
It is how the stopwatch is so cruel. It is how it ticks too loud. It is how it will only be ticking for another couple hours before I am on an airplane, looking at lights from the clouds.
And once again I will be forced to live inside my head, my life confined to the cracks on my cranium, and my citrus dreams of summer in the beach, in the city, in the glamour, in the tiny living space, will once again be locked inside my little home, inside my little mind.
And that is why I wish tomorrow never comes, for I want more time to see my insides in the beautiful Californian sun.