Old Scenic Route

Do you remember the balcony to the chapel opera house? We'd run and jump and scream and play on it as the church commenced, as toddlers graduated waving arms above their heads. They'd dim all the lights and our faces would be shrouded by shadows, but underneath our eyes still burned, still do burn with a hunger for life and mystery. And the plays would come and go, our parts switched and everyone clapping- everything was only beginning and yet it felt as though we were all set in place for the rest of the future.

And now all that belongs is what there is: several coaches colored a velvety-red, a rug from the Middle East over the wood floor, and a round table with a candelabra on top of it. To think of it as having permanence wouldn't be right, though the phase itself felt as if it were years. Every new life experience was thought to have belonged inside of that place, and we didn't consider the possibilities otherwise. At evening we would have the light of both the bloody sun and the warm candles, and everything else would fade until the shadows were demons at our feet. Every night the nightmares chase us, but we can't be afraid to sleep.

Tonight is only tonight, and tomorrow itself is beyond our grasps.