Never Winter During Summer (But Sometimes Autumn.)

During the fire kids ran around in the street. I thought it was bizarre at the time, it just seemed as if they were desensitized to the world around them, to the lives that were being ruined. Opiated from such thoughts, they ran around laughing in the orange light of the fire as it consumed another house on the street. Maybe they just didn't know anything else, were still too innocent to understand things like materialism and money. To them, all there was was their bodies and their minds and their friends and the world around them, which no one owned, and everyone owned. Collective. I wish that adults could think like that, sometimes, could just let the house burn, be happy that they were alive, and then everyone would help build them a new home with everything around them. Instead they gathered around looking at their lives (the timber and plastic and silicon and metal of their lives,) burn down, back into the ashes that they were born as, back into the ashes that we all our at the very end. And maybe that's why they couldn't be children. Children knew that it was all in vain and knew that it held all the meaning in the world. But adults, seeing those ashes, they thought of their own death, and of the objective meaningless of their lives.

Maybe I was something in between an adult and a kid. I sat there and watched. Our house had already burned down. The things that I rescued was a copy of the documents of my computer, all my papers, my first blanket, and my laptop. Everything else burned down, I suppose. At that point I wondered if my parents had insurance for this kinda stuff. My logic presumed they didn't, but my hope presumed they did. I presumed it didn't matter and that we'd probably survive either way. We had our cars, at least. They were black with the ashes of my parents lives.

I wasn't sure what made me think about that. Summer was almost over, but it was the prime of summer in my eyes. Past all the rain, into the deep, blue skies and bright days with white clouds. It was ideal in that way, one of the few things that are simply ideal, ideal outside of the imagination. Too many things were only ideal in peoples heads. Sometimes gray would roll in from the sea but mostly we'd just swelter in the sun, boil underneath it and sweat until we were just rags lying around on the street, unsure of where to turn or where to go or what to do but talk and eat and talk and eat and then fall asleep someplace. We'd talk until our tongues ran out of our mouths, until our minds were sucked dry of any and all ideas that they could possibly be filled with. The air felt like dust, and everyone had a dream of getting in a car and losing themselves somewhere up north, sleeping on floors and run down motels and in the car parked some place that was going to be conspicuous. Or hopping a train and riding out West with loose change in our pockets to be spent on a candy bar. 

God damn it, I remember the sun would come across the sky with the clouds behind it, just tracing lines over my head, falling behind like leaves in the wind behind a car. Where did that go to? Why is it that every time I look above me everything is the same and never moves, just changing slowly and I can't even look at the changes happen anymore, they just happen behind my back and stand still when I take a look. I can't even shake hands with myself anymore, it's all been washed away in the sea again, washed away by time, but who am I kidding? Who have I ever been kidding? Our mouths move but the words that come out are just ashes on top of ashes. Words and materials and music and paintings and ashes and ashes and ashes.

Time doesn't change or heal anything, only people; people forget and move on.

We never went on that train, it just passed on by. We never took the car out either, it all got totaled, money was too tight, we were all chained down, becoming adults. What happened? I still felt like a kid and that was it, too small, so small, so weak and squished in between all the layers of space and mass that make up the world around me. It squeezes my eyes until they split and the juices of my mind spill out on the floor. Maybe I'm just tired of being an open book, or feeling as if I'm being forced to open up, forced by some power that surrounds me at all times. I had a cup of water, my stomach felt like it was about to explode, I was a fly trapped in a jar and I could have gotten out but I was only being teased. I'm always being teased like that.