The Velocity of Being

I remember moving, or perhaps the world was moving through me, and the distinction had long since blurred away. There was no destination, only the feeling of becoming a streak of color against a grainy turquoise canvas. My form bled outwards into a soft, dark teal shadow, an amorphous memory of a person who once wore a beanie and a scarf against a cold that no longer registered. The city lights became weeping vertical lines, and in that fleeting moment, I was not a soul in a body, but a transient vibration, an echo of motion captured in the soft focus of a dream.