he felt infinite
His eyes were squinting with concentration, fingers firm, upper torso stoic; as he tried to make his tongue and nose kiss. “But alas! some things are not supposed to ever meet,” his sister cried, as he huffed and panted with a lack of air. He was breathless; he felt alive. The clouds were waving at him, the waves running towards him; he felt infinite, like he could stretch his arm up and taste the stuffing of the cloud- the best in the market, he presumed, but he couldn’t understand why, “Why can’t the waves run towards the clouds, instead of me?” She giggled, her lips spilling music playing symphonies on this dry, summer day, “I told you, kid: some things are never supposed to meet.”
But he felt infinite, even if his tongue could never taste the flesh of his nose, he felt infinite, like no matter how much he stretched towards the Sun, or no matter how many sandcastles tumbled and settled in the hollows of his feet; he would always have more to fill.
He felt infinite, and magic was created as dried up logs crackled flames and old flames downed cold beers and rumbled with tales of ages past.
Time is not infinite, but he could be.