Glitter and twinkles and lights upon lights. Sunshine and starlight and warmth coming up from the pavement. The bass thumbing through the soles of your feet, the harmony zinging up your spine. If you tripped you wouldn't feel it, and your scraped knees would bleed euphoria.
This is not what it's like to be alive.
This is artificial. A thrill. A feeling of higher-consciousness. A high that is temporary and deceptive in its farce.
It feels so good and so surreal, justifying a transcendentalist indulgence.
But it will not give you meaning, and it will not bring you understanding, and it will not slip you wisdom in your nectar of starry-eyed clarity.
Life is just not like that.