I call them shimmers

I call them shimmers. Ripples in the wind, they lurk in the corners of your eye, vanishing when you turn to look at them in earnest. They manifest in other ways. The pointed smile of a stranger at a train station, their lime green coat standing out from the sea of blacks and greys sprawled out in front you, hinting at some secret that the two of you shared, and that momentarily leave you feeling less alone. The gloss of morning dew on grass stems, full and plush. The soft dance of rainfall near your bedside during restless nights. Looking upwards, past the monochrome, baby blue sky, past the wispy clouds that frame that same baby blue sky, and spotting the faintest outline of the moon, hesitantly showing its face despite the daylight. Stepping out onto your porch after witnessing a thunderstorm from behind the shelter of a wndow and being greeted by the heady scent of the wet earth, bold and loud. Notcing how the laughs of children in public spaces seem to reverberate until they make sure to reach every passerby and greet them in varying echoes, and sighing at the thrill of standing in an empty street, bathed in the amber glow of lampposts only known to those who venture outside past midnight.

It seems to me that spirits – shimmers – appear to you to make you fall in love again. Not with a person, of course; that type of magic is reserved only for the living, the tangible, the real and firm that you can grasp in your hand and carefully dissect, peeling back the layers of their being until all that's left is the raw, pusling core of who they are. No, no. Shimmers are much more interesting than that. They are, without explanation. They do not exist, are not driven by what we would call purpose, destiny. They are not guides brought back from the afterlife, those who have broken through the curtaint that separates what is and what was to rescue souls in need. They have not been called to us by prayers, they are not ancestors watching over their loved ones. They do not serve God; they do not serve any god, any deity, for that matter. They are not evil, or malicious, but they are also not good. How could they be, with their endless drifting, their placid contentedness with being? They just are. To claim otherwise would be to judge the unknowable, to rationalize their mystery – a weak attempt to hide your own dscomfort at the thought of something greater than yourself. As murky as they are, shimmers have one clear, one indisputable effect: they make you fall in love, first with themselves, and then the world.

To the untrained eye, they are unnoticeable. At first. The sheen of a tulip, buttery with golden light cupped within its folds; a breath of fresh ar that lifts you up, sets you gliding, from the inside; a blueberry scone, begging to be eaten. Little marvels that slip into your life, slide under your feet, nestle into the corners of your closets. They tickle you, spark laughter in your eyes. Sometimes, they grow grand, grow tall, and start appearing in speeches, politcal movements, crowds of protestors caught in a singular breath that pushes them along. Sometimes they remain small. If they're small, no matter what you do, how hard you search for a greater purpose, a meaning to explain all this, you won't find them hidden in philosophy, in well-meaning but self-absorbed academics, or in their post-modernist cultural musings, declarations of faith and hope and humanity. Seek them out by leaving your windows slightly ajar, and maybe they'll find their way to you between the fingers of a wise sixteen year old, searching for a job. Maybe you'll see one reflected in the glint of a construction worker's hard hat, and maybe he'll find one perched above your wave to him as you go about your day.

The shimmers are not here to nurse you back to health. They are not your babysitters nor your therapists. They cannot cure illnesses and solve problems; you are better off consulting your local doctor if you're hoping for a cure. Shimmers appear, not in your moment of need, but whenever they feel like it. They are kind but harsh. They do not discriminate, against the good and the bad, the valued and the forgotten, the prosperous and the needy. They do not care for human niceties. They are not governed by karma. Either they are there, or they are not. Those fortunate enough to cross their paths should know better than to expect another visit. They simply are, and if you happen to witness their being, savor the moment. I'll let you in on a secret: sip the air once they've disappeared and you'll catch the remnants of their scent on your tongue, rapidly fading, something between rapture and cinnamon with the hint of sweat all in one.

Some become shimmer devotees, chasing their high, letting themselves become wholly addicted to it. Those that do – well, their days grow pale, fading in comparison to what they've experienced and what they've had to let go. Their thoughts are consummed with shimmer, shimmers, shimmering, and they shrink into shadows of their former selves, slits of darkness only kept alive and flickering by the promise of the shimmers' light. Others scorn the shimmers, reject them, sweep them aside and neatly label them as friviolous trifles, as if dismssing them is proof of their importance, sophistication, of their maturity as respectable, serious people. Most of us are stuck in a limbo, torn between the two extremes: fervently wishing to catch a glimpse of them once more, but resiisting the temptation of voicing this out loud, as if it's shameful, that we are not above this secret pleasure.

I can see that to you, my friend, they are something different. Kaleidescope one day, mirror the next, they bend light for you, showing you the folds and patterns of the world that you have never seen before. They have taken a liking to you, and you to them. Perhaps it has something to do with your sight. Blind, you have never once gazed at them possessively, wished them to be yours and yours alone, skimmed over them with disinterest frst, and regret later. You hold no expectations, and they like that. Your pull on them is steady, and they warp to mold around you, shimmering until you shine in tune with them.

I call them shimmers, but your world is shimmer, and so you call them home.