Everything is drenched in a swathe of gold rush and warmth. Even the dark strands of my hair are transformed ember by the scorching sun. The leaves glimmer, as do the dark cracks on tarnished tar. It is twilight, a dancing hour. I am nudged comfortingly by the breeze, which lulls me into a wave of phantasmagoria with only a whispered warning. The feeling is a chalice of muted noise and vivid colours, adoring and benign. I pause, but I am not fooled. I know that this is not a dream. This is real. I've lived here in my past.
The place locks in on an embroidery of memories I thought had unraveled from my mind.
Where I am sitting, in the present, a couple of walks away is the patch of dirt ridden road where I once slumped against the world, blowing smokes from a cigarette with vigor. They were the sinister monuments of the days where I waded in pools of rage and angst. On my right, a large solid tree that hides its heroic triumph, having been the solitary knight that kept my life afloat through storms of heart aching absence. In front of me bows the knarled tree whose twisted bark I'd punched til my knuckles shred and bled. With that last recollection, I wince.
But the dear sun, gallant as ever, is determined to not let me drown and thus twinkles and beams. I glance behind, just enough to capture an echo of giggles upon a tree that was climbed with cheers and earnest, on a day long before the forks of life were crossed. I walk across the open space and I'm carried back to a moonlit night, where we all once danced like impish nymphs. To a dark evening, where numerous candles glittered in a circle on the ground. To a far away new year, where the fireworks shrilled and thrilled like diamonds across the inky landscape of perfect suburbia.
And amongst all the ghostly debris, lying nonchalantly at the epicentre of my star clustered galaxy is, our big bang. The edge of a hill where we sat, in different times, in different stances. The frames differ in light, some larger than life, some fading into the distance, a train full of pallid memories. I've been cradled into the lull and am coaxed back home with the ebb. There is nothing quite like a ticket to another time. Affronted, I scrunch my nose.
The sun, finally tired of willowy sentiments, gives a dull punch, a slight moan, and slowly wallows into the depths of the horizon. What was glorified and bedazzling seconds ago loses its radiance and decays into mere landscape. I'm back in reality, strangely breathless with a sinking feeling that mirrors the star's descent. Shadows close in and I am blessed with its crown of insatiable yearning, one I know I may not carry very far. It's been a year. All that is left, I believe, is grace.
The place locks in on an embroidery of memories I thought had unraveled from my mind.
Where I am sitting, in the present, a couple of walks away is the patch of dirt ridden road where I once slumped against the world, blowing smokes from a cigarette with vigor. They were the sinister monuments of the days where I waded in pools of rage and angst. On my right, a large solid tree that hides its heroic triumph, having been the solitary knight that kept my life afloat through storms of heart aching absence. In front of me bows the knarled tree whose twisted bark I'd punched til my knuckles shred and bled. With that last recollection, I wince.
But the dear sun, gallant as ever, is determined to not let me drown and thus twinkles and beams. I glance behind, just enough to capture an echo of giggles upon a tree that was climbed with cheers and earnest, on a day long before the forks of life were crossed. I walk across the open space and I'm carried back to a moonlit night, where we all once danced like impish nymphs. To a dark evening, where numerous candles glittered in a circle on the ground. To a far away new year, where the fireworks shrilled and thrilled like diamonds across the inky landscape of perfect suburbia.
And amongst all the ghostly debris, lying nonchalantly at the epicentre of my star clustered galaxy is, our big bang. The edge of a hill where we sat, in different times, in different stances. The frames differ in light, some larger than life, some fading into the distance, a train full of pallid memories. I've been cradled into the lull and am coaxed back home with the ebb. There is nothing quite like a ticket to another time. Affronted, I scrunch my nose.
The sun, finally tired of willowy sentiments, gives a dull punch, a slight moan, and slowly wallows into the depths of the horizon. What was glorified and bedazzling seconds ago loses its radiance and decays into mere landscape. I'm back in reality, strangely breathless with a sinking feeling that mirrors the star's descent. Shadows close in and I am blessed with its crown of insatiable yearning, one I know I may not carry very far. It's been a year. All that is left, I believe, is grace.
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