chii
We talk. We talk for hours, from the last light of dusk to the latest hours of the night. We talk over cigarettes, we talk swimming in drinks, we talk - growing more and more rambunctious, more infectious, more absurd in our ways. And we hope, hope that if we become wild enough, vicious enough, fool enough, that we might just apprehend a small taste of something truly pure. Something worth saying. Something worth talking for.
It's a hard thing to get out of your mind when you watch other people go about their lives. They revel in their dreams, they talk about their goals, they tell you all about their lives and everything they hold inside. There's so much to them, they have so much left to do, they seem so real.
But I never saw it that way. I never had that inside of myself. No dreams or talents to spin, no goals or hopes - just a vision of a strong drink and the sun barely touching the eastern sky, a cool morning, quiet, with my thoughts.
A lemon slice with your water. It's always that way when you go to, say, a diner. You sit on those torn cushions, at those greasy tables, and you get your glass of water with a lemon slice. Maybe it's gross, you cringe when you see it dipping in your glass, but you accept it for what it is.
When you look out at your world, it's not so different. It's gross and it's stupid, but we'll stay for the food and there's nothing like having a taste of what you know.
Rain crackles against the roof, bursts of thunder beat oppressively against the walls, rattling windows in their frames. Through flashes of lightning, I see him standing solitary and unbowed, anger and desperation coalescing into the audacity to object. Harshed by the strain of a thousand fearful whispers, his voice thunders defiance while I can only stand to cower.
I'm dreaming of brighter days, of clear skies and burning nights, of streetlights and wistfulness. I'm longing for skyfuls of stars, and long, cool, dew-touched mornings. I'm hungering for change with an appetite indescribable. For now, I'll turn my collar against the cold, but it's always darkest just before the dawn.
From the first time I laid eyes on it, and every time since, Fox Theatre was positively stunning - a radiant array of lights bleeding out into the darkness, an art deco beacon amongst the renovation and ruin. It was salient then, and even now it stands, at least in my memory, a glorious bastion to behold.
The clock quietly turned over to midnight, and I lit my first to the gentle patter of the rain which fell about my perch. I watched the smoke drift lazily into the summer air, still oppressive and hot from the day, trying my damnedest to find something profound to think. Clouds loomed overhead, and the moon stared down like a gigantic eye, glaring back at me from the deep, dizzying sky.
Like an endless eight turned end on end - the same words, hopes, choices and silly mistakes. Year upon year of nights fading into bleary days, summers into winter only to repeat themselves again. And yet, like all things, this too passes leaving distant memories behind.
Running away from home, as any youthful adventurer knew, was a task which required only the most ample set of provisions. As such, he filled his backpack with forethought and planning. Peanut butter sandwiches, of course, and rope in case of emergencies. Some handfuls of loose change, a flashlight, and a package of bandaids just to be sure...
The moon beginning to dip towards the horizon, the stars stare down on the dew-touched grass as the humid night drags on towards morning. Fuzzy and indistinct, something tugs at the back of my mind, a concept rarely remembered, but I feel as if I could never imagine my life without it.
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writing since 2010 · 52 entries · 52 days shown up
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