I have lived in Colorado almost all my life, therefore I believe I know it like I know every inch of my own skin. We are the shade of every pastel with hints of the rainbow’s bold colors and we smell of aspen leaves to the West as we smell of bonfire to the East. The debris of space appears to have fallen to our grounds because trash and treasures are not uncommon here. It is just like the people and their style: corporate versus pothead. It has just always been this way, but we swear we are changing with our trees all throughout the year. In spring, the dew that accumulates between our calla lilies and verbena is the essence of Colorado’s light rail. It gently, but powerfully tugs along the nerves that we call tracks and is the communication between cells. The heart is a mixture of “Go Broncos” plastered on the worn brick throughout Denver and the sounds of a local’s guitar streaming out the window of the car beside it. And even though I adore the flashiness of Downtown and the crispiness of the mountains, the Dam Road is an exact location I can reach inside my mind. “It is just a bridge that drives right over Cherry Creek Reservoir”. It is just the deepest dwelling place of my soul. Whenever I drive on it, I roll down my windows and repeat that THIS is Colorado. The ice in the air tickles my ear lobes and makes me lick my lips. The possibility of running off the edge, knocking the metal, into the ever moving water is pleasing to my brain. It is not the idea of dying, but the overwhelming sense of peace I get from joining in. It is the place where I live because the mass of water below seems like it has swallowed the mountains and the towers all around and I, the overseer, get to drive by feeling every season, parade, and downfall.