Fireworks

I like watching fireworks. There's just something about getting your senses stimulated that is pleasing to the body and the mind. I like seeing the pretty colors as the light blossoms across the sky, each little flare's pathway quickly rises and reaches it's apex, shattering the night sky and afterwards following a lulling, lazy arc towards the ground as it's work is finished. Their lives are short and end in dead ash, but they are brilliant.

I like to hear the pops just a split second after I see them; the less time the better, cause that means I'm super close. Sure, the sights and the sounds are amazing, but the part that I really enjoy is to FEEL the sound hit me. It sets off car alarms, vibrates the roof that I'm sitting on and the people around me, and I can feel it pierce into my bones as my whole body is saturated with the firework's power.

As I watch, my mind wanders to the physics of fireworks, and the chemistry, and the work and money it takes to put such a show on as well as other things indescribable. An eighteen minute show that wasn't too shabby, and probably the best finale I've ever seen in my life leaves plenty of time to think about life.

As the whistlers go up, up, up, and I feel the shock waves from the multiple fireworks exploding simultaneously, I'm glad that these are merely meant for entertainment, and not actual shells meant to fall on American soil. So many works are fired, that the sky is lit and I can see clearly, almost as bright as day, all my surroundings. It brings such new meaning to the words "And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there."

'Murica, I guess you're alright for now. Happy birthday.