Bits and pieces that I scribble down, poetry & descriptive shorts, etc.
It was a summer day. The room was buzzing with noise, and outside the window, a song drifted through the air. It drifted through the summer air, warm and humid, stirred with just the right breeze. Not a knife that slices through, but a feather, a gentle caress of coolness through the not-summer room, gray and drab and crowded.
The song drifted through, blasted by a car on the street outside. And it was a summer song, from some generic indie rock boy band, full of drum beats and guitar riffs. Joy and freedom tumbled from it, instrumental gold and lyrical jewels that bounced onto the pavement, glittering and out of reach from the open window high above.
The moment was perfect and imperfect at the same time. It was the essence of what summer could've been, the feeling of cruising through sunlit avenues, of bonfires on beaches as suns settled into the sea. The kind of moments seen in movies and hipster photography. Picture-perfect, color-corrected, wantable but unattainable.
Perfection was a hard thing to find in real life.
Instead it was the stuffy, colorless room, the feeling of summer, and the complete absence of it.