Parting Ways (The Day The Music Died)

The last note still ringing in his ears, the night’s events still swirling around in his head, he walks out of the door into the warm evening air.  The entire atmosphere is one of joyous sadness.  Emotions course through the air, giving it some sort of charge.  The next morning shall be the last exchange of the drink of the fruit of passion, and yet the solemn first for him.  Later tomorrow he knows, they all know, that they must part ways.  They must all leave their oasis of comfort and security to dive again into the vast sea of reality, of conformity.  Yet still they cherish it, hold on to it.  Even in the last moments of such a magical night, they open their minds, their hearts, open their souls to each other and learn to love that which is there in what others have exposed.  The chants of “…MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE” truly resound in not only everyone’s thoughts but in their utmost desires.  

Late that night, lying in that same old bed for the last time, gazing up at the concrete ceiling.  Finally, his thoughts allowed to sit and slowly filter out.  Shock, insubordinate yet knowingly unjust anger.  A few muttered words from the other side of the room, a brief agreement of opinions. Then silence.  The hazy recollection of events over the past three weeks, the bittersweet insanity which so marked each and every day.  The mistakes made, the friendships formed, the battles lost and won.  And as all of this starts to settle down into a gentle murmur, he drifts off into sleep.

The next morning, torn from the warm embrace of his frail sheets, down to the circle, sips from the glass, toasts to a fallen comrade.  Soon enough the group all progressed to go through their daily routines one final time.  They returned to what they knew was the inevitable.

They were there, it was time to be rounded up and brought back to their respective lives.  Tears were shed, last goodbyes, every single one of them joined as one united being, as one entity separate from their single selves.  Each and every one of them will never leave the spot they were when they knew it was time they had to leave.  Those who knew they could never return let fall the rains of their misery.  Their true love for something so intangible yet so true and so real ripped apart their true selves and lovingly joined their true selves back together in an instant.

But, as inevitabilities go, by midday it was empty and silent.  Once could almost feel on the air all that had occurred there so few hours ago.  That evening, He finally lay in bed before sleep.  All were dispersed from that place they cherished so dear, back in the true world but thinking of naught but what they had left behind.

And all at once, without warning, from places near and far came the sound of 300 voices:  “This will be the day that I die…”

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One Way

My face dry and burnt from the afternoon sun,
Facing toward forever.
Behind me, a world of pain and anguish,
One step forward, a solution.

They yell from below,
But their voices are trivial.
They didn't care then,
They don't care now.
Slowly breathing,
There's no turning back.
I let myself fly,
The wind on my side,
And soar from the peak of despair.

Falling into an endless ocean of darkness,
Into the pain, that no one bothered to notice.
Ripping the air,
Like a knife plunged deep,
A blur out the window,
To those who would cynically glance.
A waste of skin,
A waste of time,
A waste of life.

Blessed,
Sweet,
Pavement...

The Triumph of Aemilius Paulus - Carle Vernet

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Monterey Forest - Guy Rose

architecture building

architecture building

15

15 years old and trying to get,
How to grow up,
Without throwing a fit,
My classes are hard,
I feel so scared,
Having to do homework, chores, and more,
But wanting to watch cartoons like I did before,
Needing some comfort,
While standing up tall,
And just praying not to fall,
I'm not grown up yet,
But sometimes, that I forget,
Having to act responsible,
Yet feeling so reckless,
Confused and worried,
Confident and secure,
Trying to grow up,
Yet trying to be pure.

Number 92 - Roger Weik