conversations with the mid-day moon

side blog for my writing

[always-afternoon]

sometimes it feels like the past doesn't exist, like it never was. all of my happy memories are laced with a mournful, dream-like nostalgia, just enough the smear the edges. and it does feel like a dream, but it never touches the surface. pictures fade into pictures, moments blur together into indistinguishable scenes of a forever film.

[always-afternoon]

my mind cries when my eyes can't, drowning my thoughts in the salty water that i should be able to swim in. each idea loses life, becomes foggy and then quickly forgotten

[always-afternoon]

this person bottled up inside me

finally’s trying to get out

but i don’t know if i’ll let her

i’m still having some doubts

when my mind is all mixed up

sometimes she likes to peek out

[always-afternoon]

i feel outside of my own body, watching from the sidelines

waiting for what will happen when these worlds realign

[always-afternoon]

everything is happening at once and not at all

everything is moving too quickly and not fast enough

everything is too much and not enough

[always-afternoon]

they were the kind of memories that feel like standing in the summer sun

on a warm, cloudless day

the moments that feel like home

[always-afternoon]

She had arrived late, with the sun low in the sky. The for sale sign in the front yard had been removed by the real estate agent. All of her things were sitting in the rented truck in the small driveway. The house sat, empty and bare, while she walked barefoot along the beach. She carried nothing but her keys. Her phone and wallet were forgotten, sitting atop of the single thing she unloaded: her bed and mattress.

The sun now dipped below the horizon and the moon just barely peeked out from behind clouds. The water washed her footprints away as soon as they were made. She stopped at the edge of town. The moon was high in the sky, no longer shielded by clouds. She turned and faced the sea, breathing in the fresh air.

[always-afternoon]

A single cigarette would find her lips sometimes.

Out on the balcony, in the early morning, she would lean over the banister. A cigarette between her lips, dangling and threatening to fall. Sometimes lit, sometimes not.

Outside of a bar, the faint orange glow lightly illuminating her face in the darkness. Puffs of smoke would escape her lungs, dancing in the air until it disappeared.

In her kitchen, by the window with a glass of wine. She would sit on the counter, leaning back against the cabinets above. There was a small stain on the ceiling, barely visible.

She kept a box of matches in her jacket, in her pants pocket, on the bed side table. She would roll the cigarette between her her thumb and first finger before placing it loosely in her mouth. The sharp pop of the match catching fire followed by the flickering of the fire against the end of the cigarette.

It wasn’t a habit, necessarily. There was no telling when she would light one next. Most times she would bum one from a stranger, or take a drag from a friends. She rarely bought her own, not wanting to waste money on a pack that would stale in a few days.

The first inhale was always worse than she remembered. The smoke would burn her lungs until she exhaled; slow and warm through her lips.

[always-afternoon]

They don't take kindly to outsiders in these parts.

The small gas station quiets when the bell rings differently and unfamiliar boots walk the aisles. The woman behind the counter doesn’t say anything when she rings up your items, she just eyes the storage door behind you.

Eyes from every home on Main Street follow your car down the road, watching silently through the blinds, not blinking.

The motel owner glares when he hands you the skeleton key for your room, and tells you to stay away from the east wing. He doesn't mention the inconsistent dull pounding coming from behind the counter.

There's no newspaper; only a radio station. Even then, news travels so fast that by morning the host is announcing old news. It's always old news.

The abandoned buildings whisper in the wind. Every time you drive past, a different window seems to be broken and another boarded up. One day, all the windows are new.

No one seems to mind the rain. It’s good for the crops, they say. They don't mention the still-dry cornfields that seem to draw you in night after night.

They don't mention how no one has ever made it out of the corn fields.

It's good for the crops, they would say.

[always-afternoon]

She couldn't remember it exactly, it was a haze. Moments were tangled with moments. Everything seemed to happen at once and everything seemed to not happen at all.

It was a long year of wishing and hoping for a something more that would never happen. In a second, it went from nothing to a much more pronounced, concrete nothing.

The void of loneliness was eating away at her and it wasn’t letting up. Her heart was heavy and dragging everything with it.

[always-afternoon]

They would eat breakfast at the bar in the kitchen, talking quietly or not at all. A cool breeze would come through the windows, carrying the morning dove’s song and the occasional grit of tires on the road. Dishes would be left in the sink for later that day, after dinner.

Mornings were rarely energetic; they were slow and peaceful. They were for quiet conversations and sitting on the porch, watching the sun rise higher and higher. They were for easing into the day.

[always-afternoon]

it's a friday afternoon and we're on the way to a mall. music is blaring from the speakers, the car shakes with every beat of the bass. windows are open and fresh air fills our lungs.

it's friday night and the smoothies at the mall are expensive but worth it. the pop music playing over the speakers is just low enough to hear the drums but the lyrics are a muffled mess.

it's saturday morning. it's too early to be awake, or is it too late? we're back home, sitting on a bed with smoke hovering between us. quiet synth music plays from a computer while we try to laugh silently. the room is hot and starlight peeks through the curtains.

[always-afternoon]

The excitement of being somewhere they weren’t supposed to be outweighed the fear and anxiety of being caught. Boot heels clicked against the porch steps in the dim moonlight, the sound amplified by the otherwise total silence. A click and the crisp white of a flashlight tore through the palpable darkness around the group.

[always-afternoon]

i'm bored of the campfire nights

tired of the small-talk schools

of this hollow town

[always-afternoon]

The first night had a faint nostalgia to it. The air was soft and the moon shone bright through the large windows. Animals could be heard, their noises distant and light. Nearby, the water had a calming effect on all who could hear the waves crashing against each other.

[always-afternoon]

The shortness of the days brought on a weird but familiar warmth that comes with winter. The first snowfall, coming at a completely inopportune time, blanketing the earth with a silence only known to a white night. The relief of walking inside from the freezing air, cold fingers wrapped around an almost-too-hot mug, blankets piling on every piece of furniture.