I want to swallow these blush pink afternoons the way you inhale a scent deeply, deeply to cage it in, to make your lungs swim in the perfumed pleasantness of it. Those I-can’t-wait-for-it afternoons after school and now after work, slipping out of civilian life, scrubbing off the city from your skin, all the smog and car honks and ruthlessness gone. Your skin clean, breathing again.
You know, these afternoons that dip into evenings, where the calm, ethereal colours of evening drip down the sky like watercolour.
I laugh now when I think about it. About how I used to think I was this mysterious night owl, how I embraced the night and stars.
But I sink so comfortably into afternoons— I unwind and my dreams, like birds, take flight, reaching the crisp saltiness of red and white lighthouses, or landing by the distant mystery of the lights blinking owlishly far up the mountains. My dreams, they soar, unshackled and wild into the sky, flying away into the sunset, towards that place beyond the pines and city walls where freedom lies. They fly beyond time, beyond physics or cosmology or sense. You see, the afternoon unleashes all sorts of otherworlds—dimensions that only tiredness can reveal. Colours that you can only see as sleep blurs the barriers between all the worlds, lulls your brain into letting the child from your memories out.
These afternoons, they’re also deep quietness and music that will not be listened to with eyes open. They’re for watching fingers that are not mine tracing the trail of smoke left behind by passing airplanes.
That brief twilight moment between afternoon and evenings are for warm hands that comb through headaches and glossy hair, that hold your hand as you bid farewell to the day that’s passed, wishing with all you have that you may be granted this kind of peace again.
Note: There’s probably a second part to this coming up, so stay tuned!