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Anonymous
2016-06-18 02:21:50 Post No. 8174724
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Anonymous
2016-06-18 02:21:50
Post No. 8174724
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Late night writing feels.
The man stared up at the moon, the dirty sidewalk falling away from him. Years fell away. He was young again, fourteen and screaming at the same pale light. Running down an alley with the three closest companions man could ask for. Screaming at the moon, daring it to remember his courage and recklessness. He was seventeen. The moon guided his path home, his car shooting down the parkway, away from the waves, back into the city. It was the last day of classes. He was eighteen. A drunken classmate sang 'Beyond the Sea' atop a half-cleared prom table. A blue feeling had crept into the young man as he watched his classmate give inebriated honor to the late Frank Sinatra. Later that night, they had kissed and drank and made love, the merrymaking enveloping them, immortalizing them. The moon kept careful loving watch, doting upon her young. Later that month the man had spoken long into the night with a deadman under the moon's gaze. The conversation spilled breast-to-breast until she had to retire, allowing the sun to bear the watchful burden. He was twenty. Walls melted, primordial crimson creatures marched to the beat of their own drums, far too difficult to handle. Twenty-two, entering hallowed halls. Solitary footsteps echoing at night, serving the city. Twenty-four, they had strode into her room, late on Christmas night. The lights were dim, burned low. A cigarette was hastily ashed, a smile breaking across her face. Was he a man now? Or just pretending? Do we ever cross a threshold into adulthood? Are we all children? And then she began to cry and hold him and beg him not to leave. She asked why his mother hated her so, what had she done wrong. She clutched him as if the world would stop turning otherwise, her tears burned into his coat. They had closed the door behind them, walking back to the car in silence. The moon watched above but was no longer the tender gaze of protector. She was now the silent watch of chronicler. Of timekeeper. Of observer. Cold. Impartial. The moon receded. The man was alone on the sidewalk, averting his gaze now. The cold ache burned his chest and he could feel nothing else.
How do I get rid of this feeling /lit/?