The warmth of the air at about eleven thirty on an especially warm summer night is the kind that feeds the imagination. It smells like grass and it sounds quiet and loud all at the same time. As i stare out from the safety of my porch into the darkness i smile and take a deep breath, wondering how all of a sudden i can taste the feelings of being a teenager.
The sadness is quiet, but it is comforting. It reminds me that i am young and i am innocent, and i have much to learn. The warm orange light from the streetlamp lies thick on my skin, and i find that if i stare long enough without blinking i can imagine myself anywhere in the world, with any worry and any hand to hold.
It's funny, each and every time i have sat softly next to the darkness and imagined, i have never had a clear image of what i would most like to happen next. I simply know that i am in a standstill and i have forever been the type of person to run when the dynamic kisses the static.
the darkness is the most wonderful place to cry. you close your eyes and let a single tear slide down your face, and when you open them, there could be a soft hand to wipe that tear away.
Or maybe you are one of those girls who chases the hand away. That's okay too, because now you have a reason to cry. Before you closed your eyes to let the tear escape, there was a hand to brush your hair behind your ears, but now instead of being there to protect your face from the waves of the ocean you must learn to cry peacefully as you embrace the emptiness of solitude.
maybe you haven't done anything wrong. Maybe life has been an unfair mistress to you, and you cannot fathom why. But whatever her reasoning, life has pushed you down and before you are able to pick yourself back up you must wring out all of the salty wet wrong.
I have always wished to take up smoking at about 11:30 on an especially warm summer night. Not because i want to feel tobacco entering my body, but simply because i want to turn my head to the sky and blow a fresh wave of unhealthy angst up at the stars. They mock me in their infinity; it is ridiculous to be able to stare in a simple direction and feel so insignificant.
would it be a simple comfort to have something in my hands? that if every so often i could bring it to my lips and inhale a little more poison of independence? Because after all, smoking is an adult decision and being an adult calls for the rickety shaking of hands that comes from making big decisions.
I don't think i ever really realized anything about myself until 11:30 on an especially warm summer night. Because as i stare out into the darkness of the night, i learn that i am a human being with beautiful little flaws, and hopes to fill an ocean, and regret cuddled closely next to my heart. i long for touch, yet i am unsure what kind. i long to see the world, yet as i try to stand and fall into the intoxicated sky i suddenly understand that the only reason things look so big is because i have made myself small. The way to understand my world is to understand my heart and in order to make that leap i stand up and retreat back to the familiarity of inside.
Tomorrow it will be day, but tomorrow it will also be 11:30 on an especially warm summer night.
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