The sun is starting to set outside, causing the intersection of Lyndale and 34th to be drenched in hues of purples and pinks. The light bulbs in the coffee house flood the interior with a golden illumination. All this compliments the burnt orange that the walls have been donning since the place opened. People are laughing, chatting, pointing and appreciating. My friend is showing her art tonight, and she is glowing. Her pieces (memories depicted in bright colors and unique lines) are flying off the walls (6 of 8 were sold before the event even started) and she would not be slow to admit that she's enjoying it.
I am flanked by the voices of strangers and friends. Happy, serious, hushed, and exclaimed. The father of the artist pushes through the crowd of hipster coffee drinkers and comments on the difference in temperature between the two opposite ends of the store: "You should feel the temperature of this end! It's like ten degrees colder!" I smiled and nodded my reply. This piece was important. However instead of leaving as I expected him to, he addressed me further and in a jovial, sarcastic tone. "I bet you're getting a ton of work done, eh?" He laughed warmly. I was getting work done, actually. For an extrovert like myself, the subtle chatter and loving interactions formed a perfect environment to spark my creativity.
I look around, sometimes catching parts of conversations, sometimes snatching a smile.The light outside has transitioned from a pinkish purple to a dark lilac. The night is slowly walking towards us, and the room becomes a little less vibrant. The lights grow harsher against the ever darkening canvas outside, but I do not feel as though my unusually quiet presence is unwelcome or out of place. A couple hugs in the center of the aisle before browsing a few more of the pieces on display. I smile at the predicament in which I have found myself. I am happy. I am writing. I am in love with the life I am currently living.
Is this not what makes life beautiful?