baby, they will see us.
For sennuyer. Oh, Josh. Stop being so fucking meta and fix your show. Thanks.
this is a concept
Time is a weird thing. On the nights that you remember dreaming, which are getting fewer and fewer now, you recall bending time and looking through it, past it, as if everything was happening in the same moment and you just had to sort it out, you just had to fish out the right moments to live. You dream, mostly of things that could've been real, but you're never quite sure until you wake up, and by that point, time stretches out and becomes a linear, moving train again. Still. This is what it's like.
*
You are fifteen and you think you might be desperately in love with a girl you've always known; you think it but you're not sure. It's late summer, early fall, and you go camping for the first time with Theresa's family the last week of August. Camping isn't something that people in Chino do, really. But Theresa had asked for it as her sixteenth birthday present and she had an aunt who lived in the suburbs of San Francisco. And that aunt had a cabin in the mountains, had inherited it from the nice side of the family. Theresa had asked for that, and for you to go with her, for you. Trey goes, too, because Theresa's mother had asked for that. She isn't as out of it as Dawn is. (This is back when Trey was the type of person that you are now, now that Sandy's taken you in: moldable, able to be saved. Redeemed, even, but you don't know how much you believe in that word. Saved from what, you want to ask. Part of you is grateful, even as the other part grits your teeth and unclenches your fingers.)
You are fifteen. You wake up early that day and squeeze yourself into her brother's old beach house yellow convertible, and Theresa drives behind her parents all the way to the second to last rest stop they make before the car stalls. She laughs a lot and the highways are pretty quiet, so it's nice. The air gets colder and colder the further she drives from Chino, and the sky whiter, more unforgiving. You pull your sleeves over your knuckles from the cold and you can see the goose bumps on the back of her brown arms, as if through some startlingly clear lens. It takes you a moment before you think, she belongs in the sun and in the summer, but the thought leaves you as fast as it came. That's how you are with words.
You want a cigarette, but she doesn't smoke and Trey's in the other car.
The cabin's brown. That's the first thing you notice. White window frames around the blackness of the building's interior, the roof a little sloppy and in disrepair. It makes you want to fix it, pull it out of decay. The next thing you do is bum a cigarette off Trey, when Theresa's mom isn't looking. He tells you to be careful, doesn't want you to go around burning the freaking thing down amid the piles of half rotting, half crisp leaves. The door's got scratches on it, and it's like a bad horror movie, the kind that plays on channel six on Sunday afternoons. Theresa laughs when you mention it to her, a little thrilled by the idea, pulling you by the wrist inside. You almost stumble into her, and you can feel her hair against your neck, curling and heavy; you can smell her perfume, something a little spicy and warm and inexpensive but wholly hers. It's like that. You want to press her against the log walls and kiss her until she can't breathe, suddenly. You'd do more if the two of you were alone, but you shake that thought out of your head. It's her birthday.
The two of you sit on the grass in front of the doorway, reluctant to go in because of the dust and spider webs that make you sneeze. You sit cross-legged on the dirt, your feet touching hers, just a little. You can hear her parents and Trey in the distance, the heavy drag of a cooler and slam of a car door; the weak sun fitful and cool on the back of your neck, her bare knees pressing against your worn jeans. You lean in to kiss her, pushing her to the ground, almost. She's looking straight at you, eyes dark and laughing when you close your own just a second before your hand touches her face, just a second before you feel the press of her Chapstick soft lips against yours, just a second before this particular world ends.
*
You are fifteen, seventeen when you wake up with the smell of evergreens and cigarette smoke and cinnamon so strong in your nose and mouth that you almost believe. You almost believe that it was real, that it happened. It's hard to remember some things from back then, from barely two years ago.
The shivering trees and filtered sun and dusty window frames are all so very perfect in your mind, perfect as only intangible things can be. The thing is, you don't know, you don't know. You can't remember. You close your eyes and try to chase down and keep those last bits of sound and memory, even though you know it's as useless as everything else you've ever done, even as you feel the light creeping through your eyelids, even as a hand shakes your shoulder and you hear Seth's voice whisper, "Ryan, Ryan,", soft and unbearably curious .
this is a concept
Time is a weird thing. On the nights that you remember dreaming, which are getting fewer and fewer now, you recall bending time and looking through it, past it, as if everything was happening in the same moment and you just had to sort it out, you just had to fish out the right moments to live. You dream, mostly of things that could've been real, but you're never quite sure until you wake up, and by that point, time stretches out and becomes a linear, moving train again. Still. This is what it's like.
*
You are fifteen and you think you might be desperately in love with a girl you've always known; you think it but you're not sure. It's late summer, early fall, and you go camping for the first time with Theresa's family the last week of August. Camping isn't something that people in Chino do, really. But Theresa had asked for it as her sixteenth birthday present and she had an aunt who lived in the suburbs of San Francisco. And that aunt had a cabin in the mountains, had inherited it from the nice side of the family. Theresa had asked for that, and for you to go with her, for you. Trey goes, too, because Theresa's mother had asked for that. She isn't as out of it as Dawn is. (This is back when Trey was the type of person that you are now, now that Sandy's taken you in: moldable, able to be saved. Redeemed, even, but you don't know how much you believe in that word. Saved from what, you want to ask. Part of you is grateful, even as the other part grits your teeth and unclenches your fingers.)
You are fifteen. You wake up early that day and squeeze yourself into her brother's old beach house yellow convertible, and Theresa drives behind her parents all the way to the second to last rest stop they make before the car stalls. She laughs a lot and the highways are pretty quiet, so it's nice. The air gets colder and colder the further she drives from Chino, and the sky whiter, more unforgiving. You pull your sleeves over your knuckles from the cold and you can see the goose bumps on the back of her brown arms, as if through some startlingly clear lens. It takes you a moment before you think, she belongs in the sun and in the summer, but the thought leaves you as fast as it came. That's how you are with words.
You want a cigarette, but she doesn't smoke and Trey's in the other car.
The cabin's brown. That's the first thing you notice. White window frames around the blackness of the building's interior, the roof a little sloppy and in disrepair. It makes you want to fix it, pull it out of decay. The next thing you do is bum a cigarette off Trey, when Theresa's mom isn't looking. He tells you to be careful, doesn't want you to go around burning the freaking thing down amid the piles of half rotting, half crisp leaves. The door's got scratches on it, and it's like a bad horror movie, the kind that plays on channel six on Sunday afternoons. Theresa laughs when you mention it to her, a little thrilled by the idea, pulling you by the wrist inside. You almost stumble into her, and you can feel her hair against your neck, curling and heavy; you can smell her perfume, something a little spicy and warm and inexpensive but wholly hers. It's like that. You want to press her against the log walls and kiss her until she can't breathe, suddenly. You'd do more if the two of you were alone, but you shake that thought out of your head. It's her birthday.
The two of you sit on the grass in front of the doorway, reluctant to go in because of the dust and spider webs that make you sneeze. You sit cross-legged on the dirt, your feet touching hers, just a little. You can hear her parents and Trey in the distance, the heavy drag of a cooler and slam of a car door; the weak sun fitful and cool on the back of your neck, her bare knees pressing against your worn jeans. You lean in to kiss her, pushing her to the ground, almost. She's looking straight at you, eyes dark and laughing when you close your own just a second before your hand touches her face, just a second before you feel the press of her Chapstick soft lips against yours, just a second before this particular world ends.
*
You are fifteen, seventeen when you wake up with the smell of evergreens and cigarette smoke and cinnamon so strong in your nose and mouth that you almost believe. You almost believe that it was real, that it happened. It's hard to remember some things from back then, from barely two years ago.
The shivering trees and filtered sun and dusty window frames are all so very perfect in your mind, perfect as only intangible things can be. The thing is, you don't know, you don't know. You can't remember. You close your eyes and try to chase down and keep those last bits of sound and memory, even though you know it's as useless as everything else you've ever done, even as you feel the light creeping through your eyelids, even as a hand shakes your shoulder and you hear Seth's voice whisper, "Ryan, Ryan,", soft and unbearably curious .