this is pretty much shit so whatever.
Sweet sun setting over soft sands. Children and adults alike run over it. As the waves crash against the shore young men and women ride them as if floating on violent clouds being tossed around by the wind. North America’s longest pier rests to the left, a monument marking the area.
Up the street we rest on a porch of a blue and white house. We’re not alone. Around us young people from around the world have come to forget where they’re coming from. For now we sit, sharing cigarettes and stories.
Bonfires burn and mark the coast with the stars as their celestial counterparts. Running up and down the beach one night, we’re yelling into a cell phone to distant friends in distant places. Not my phone, but his, he being my partner in grime, my partner in travel. In a months time the bill for this phone will be obscene but acceptable. This night we run, we climb, and we yell. Home doesn’t exist, it doesn’t need to.
On these same sands the next day we will rest our pained heads from this night of bonfires and phone calls. We make bracelets as the sand infiltrates our possessions. The books, the paper, the pens and the bags we brought with us are now lined with the tiny grains, acting as unexpected memories every time these possessions are used again. I look up and see a child run across the coast as the water kisses the sand. The child’s face is illuminated happiness from the simple satisfaction of the cool ocean.
In a few days we won’t be here anymore. We will be resting out tired heads on the floors of former strangers. They are no longer strangers, they our now our friends. We’ll lie in the grass on a hill and hate each other. Promptly after this we lie in the grass on a hill no longer hating each other. We’ll drive in foreign cars and see parks at night. In these parks the swings and things will be wet and we won’t find out until after. With out new friends we will jump on age old bridges, begging for them to break so we can plunge to our untimely deaths. They won’t break. Bridges don’t break in our world.
The best things happen late at night. The nighttime is a time to discover. Running to and from imminent danger becomes the new pastime of choice. Late at night new friends take us to see their old friends. Late at night we cruise through small towns. Late at night we discover who we are and who we don’t want to become. We ride in buses overnight to find new people and places to love. We wake up with strangers and don’t wonder why.
Back on the beach the sun sets again. This setting sun is the last one we watched. Dirty hair and the sun on our backs, in this moment we’re free.
Up the street we rest on a porch of a blue and white house. We’re not alone. Around us young people from around the world have come to forget where they’re coming from. For now we sit, sharing cigarettes and stories.
Bonfires burn and mark the coast with the stars as their celestial counterparts. Running up and down the beach one night, we’re yelling into a cell phone to distant friends in distant places. Not my phone, but his, he being my partner in grime, my partner in travel. In a months time the bill for this phone will be obscene but acceptable. This night we run, we climb, and we yell. Home doesn’t exist, it doesn’t need to.
On these same sands the next day we will rest our pained heads from this night of bonfires and phone calls. We make bracelets as the sand infiltrates our possessions. The books, the paper, the pens and the bags we brought with us are now lined with the tiny grains, acting as unexpected memories every time these possessions are used again. I look up and see a child run across the coast as the water kisses the sand. The child’s face is illuminated happiness from the simple satisfaction of the cool ocean.
In a few days we won’t be here anymore. We will be resting out tired heads on the floors of former strangers. They are no longer strangers, they our now our friends. We’ll lie in the grass on a hill and hate each other. Promptly after this we lie in the grass on a hill no longer hating each other. We’ll drive in foreign cars and see parks at night. In these parks the swings and things will be wet and we won’t find out until after. With out new friends we will jump on age old bridges, begging for them to break so we can plunge to our untimely deaths. They won’t break. Bridges don’t break in our world.
The best things happen late at night. The nighttime is a time to discover. Running to and from imminent danger becomes the new pastime of choice. Late at night new friends take us to see their old friends. Late at night we cruise through small towns. Late at night we discover who we are and who we don’t want to become. We ride in buses overnight to find new people and places to love. We wake up with strangers and don’t wonder why.
Back on the beach the sun sets again. This setting sun is the last one we watched. Dirty hair and the sun on our backs, in this moment we’re free.