This is why we live here

The sun beamed in the horizon. Its rays turning everything it touched into gold. The road glowed. The sidewalks glittered. The blue sky seemed to be brighter. There’s a certain angle that the setting sun passes through on a warm September day that seems to do this. Even the sky around the sun becomes a glimmering yellow. If you face west at this time, everything in front of you becomes a silhouette. It’s like those buildings and palm trees are just a shadow of a memory; the specter of a dream. It is evenings like this that serves as a reminder of why we live here—to drive on golden roads, to bask in the haze of a dreamy afternoon and to become a memory lost in the sun’s rays.

That night

It is a shadow of a memory.

It is a scribble in the margins.

It is a whisper as people look upon old photos.

It will be lost to posterity.

It will not be in stone for all to see.

It will be erased from history.

For posterity...

Elaine enjoyed the juice a little too much.

June evenings

A thousand voices filled the courtyard as the auditorium emptied. Tears flowed. Laughter was shared. Hugs were given. Parents spoke in awe while some students complained about mistakes and while some others recalled their best moment. It was graduation, prom and the state championship all rolled into one. For some it was the culmination of a year’s work. For others it was the validation they sought after seven years of harder work.

The moon hung in the west in a crescent, the twilight ending and the stars beginning to take full effect. The sky was a luminescent blue. Bands of light came from the auditorium, illuminating the tiny spaces in the dark courtyard. This was the perfect June evening. And this was a reminder of why I do what I do, he thought. A photo, a recording must been taken of the scene that night. But it’s one that’s repeated over and over on nights light this, on courtyards like this, with friends and families like this, in other cities like this.

There was no other care in the world on that courtyard that night except for what just happened in the auditorium moments earlier. Because at that age, nothing matters but now. This is a moment—a feeling—that should be preserved and added on the endangered species list. Little do they know that it’s seldom that they—the kids—will feel like this again. It’s because the kids don’t know any better. Their spirit hasn’t been hardened. Their naïveté is confused for courage. Their ignorance is their strength. Because life hasn’t happened to them yet. They believe a moment like this is a regular occurrence. And they do not know that life is the biggest obstacle to this feeling.

There has to be a way to shield our youth from life—before experience leads to heartbreak and knowledge becomes cynicism and courage is replace by the false promise of comfort.

This is why I do what I do. To remember what it was like before life. To experience a perfect summer night and to wonder what life would be like if that June evening had been endless.

The Night

My favorite thing right now is a night-time run; not super late, but around 8 or 9 or 10 p.m. It’s just about the hour when restaurants are beginning to empty, the cars are beginning to whisk away and those who are brave enough to continue walk into the fine watering holes for a nightcap or some revelry. The streets begin to sigh, finally able to relax after a hard day’s work, expanding and contracting underneath the mighty weight of human trouble. The buildings slumber, no longer annoyed at man-made stress. The lights hum to no one in particular. And my only companion is my shadow, racing ahead me, following my light footsteps or keeping pace. The only sounds are my breathing, the occasional car engine and the feint din whenever I approach a bar. The sidewalks are empty like a wide open field for me to run though; open spaces in a crowded city. I duck in and out of darkness and artificial light. And every now and then I can see the moon or feel its touch peak through the forest of skyscrapers.

There’s no need for sun, what withers life away.

There’s no need for rest, when men put their worries off for the next sunrise.

There’s no need for bright, where truth hides in plain sight.

I prefer what lurks in shadows.

These are my runs. These are my nights.