Setting Designs

A remix of a song I linked in 30 Mental Life Hacks.

I Need Some Sleep (Dwin Remix):


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I just want to design places that I'd like to hang out in.

No psychological examinations or implications in this post. Just for fun. I have six hours to kill until I board my flight.

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The rectangular room is huge, to begin with. It's at least five times your height, and stretches long enough that there are shadows in the far corners. As you enter the room from a door in a corner, facing the long side, the first thing you notice is the huge stained glass window - it's big enough to reach from the ceiling to about three feet from the floor. It depicts an image of a red japanese maple tree as the centerpiece, placed against a golden-yellow sky. The window is deeply set into the wall, so that there is space for a cushioned window seat under it.

Yellow and red glass filters light through the rest of the room. All the walls are covered in tall bookshelves, and all the bookshelves are chock full of books - thin research journals, stained cloth-bound tomes, entire sets of what seems to be every series ever written. There is a rolling ladder for each wall; two for the one where the window bisects the shelves. In the middle of the room are three evenly scattered arm chairs and one lounge chair, each next to its own table and lamp. Each lamp has a dome-shaped shade made of pieces of glass in similar yellow hues as the window. Everything wooden - the floor, the shelves, the legs of the chairs, the tables - is a dark mahogany brown. The cushions and upholstery are a velvet-like maroon shade, as is the large rectangular carpet that covers just the middle of the floor. The ceiling and what little wall that is showing is painted creamy white, but in the dim room it looks like dark ivory.

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This bedroom is much smaller, and has the air of being thoroughly lived in. The predominate color is white - the walls, ceiling, and desk are all painted a snowy shade. The hardwood floor is a light caramel color, but a white plush carpet covers most of it.  Tucked lengthwise into the far left corner is a bed with a lilac duvet, with tall, wooden bedposts, and still messy from where the inhabitant left it that morning; in the right corner, a small wooden staircase winds straight up into the ceiling. On the left wall is a large aquarium, filled with bright plaster coral rocks and water plants, and no small amount of fish; the rest of that wall is taken up by a wooden closet door. Along the right wall is placed a set of drawers with two levels of bookshelves attached above it - both levels are full of paperbacks. Next to this combination drawer/shelf is a shorter bookcase with three levels, but the middle one is crammed with old, worn shoes. On top of it are photos in thin brown frames and an admirable shell and sea glass collection. A large light brown cork board is hung above this shorter bookshelf. There are fresh ivy wreaths resting on top of every lampshade, and small potted plants on the desk, nightstand, and bookshelves. Pictures and posters of nature cover the walls, as well as smaller mementos - train slips, museum admissions, photo booth strips, concert tickets. A large window on the far wall spills bright light on every surface. 

Up the staircase is a different story. Where the stairs meet the ceiling there is a small trapdoor, to keep out the dust. Through this door is a spacious attic. It spans the rest of the house, so it's huge, much bigger than the room downstairs. Also unlike the bedroom, the attic has the feeling of having been a bit neglected, though someone is obviously trying to make repairs. Part of the walls have begun to be painted white, and furniture small enough to fit through the trapdoor has been placed throughout the room. A small wooden three-legged table is placed in a corner with two chairs, and a tall, thin vase with a few bright wildflowers are placed on top. An easel with a tall wooden stool is placed against the opposite wall, where the largest window lets in light; there are no lightbulbs. Some squashy cushions are laid out on the three window seats, and there are already small stacks of paperbacks piled on the floor next to each one. An open can of dark wood varnish sits on the ground in a back corner, a new paintbrush lying new and unused next to it.

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I See Fire - Kygo Remix, by Ed Sheeran:
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Temperate forests are known for having deciduous trees with brilliant foliage in the fall, and this one is no different. From a bird's-eye view, the trees create a bumpy sea of crimson, green, and goldenrod that blankets the gentle rolling hills. But this particular section of the forest is an aspen grove. The slender trees are rather densely packed together, so the changing autumn leaves make it look as though there is an immense golden cloud surrounding the white crowns of the trees. The ground is relatively clear of debris and duff, letting grass grow more freely, but there are a few small shrubs and bushes growing here and there. Some bushes have bright clusters of red berries.

Somewhere in the middle of this grove is a clearing about 10 feet in diameter. The grass, completely uninhibited, is much greener and longer here. About three feet from the trees, neither in the middle of the cleaning nor right up against the thin trunks, is a large, completely clear ball propped above the ground on a sturdy steel frame. It's big enough to comfortably accommodate an average-sized person. Inside is a nest of many faded red blankets, a large white pillow, and many smaller cushions in muted, dusty colors.

There is an almost invisible door that opens to the inside of this bubble. Someone was recently here; there is an open book laid facedown on the blankets, and a phone attached to a small portable speaker. 

Outside, it starts to rain. The wind picks up, rustling the golden leaves so they make a crinkling, whispering sound. The rain begins to fall in earnest, and runs in tiny rivers and streams down the curved sides of the ball, tiny raindrops racing one another to the ground. The storm softly drums against the clear ball, but the fixture is completely waterproof. The view of the surrounding forest becomes a bit blurred as the rain continues to pour. However, it doesn't mask the shape of a doe as she steps lightly across the grass; too soon does she quietly disappear between the fair svelte aspens.

---

This is a kitchen fit for kings. It's at least 30 by 25 feet, if not larger. Against the longer wall, from left to right, is an extremely long waist-height counter, followed by an eight-set gas stove, a slightly shorter (lengthwise) counter like the first, an inset microwave above an industrial oven, and a double door refrigerator at the end of it all. The counter in the corner of the wall continues over onto roughly a third of the shorter wall. About three feet from the L-shaped counters is a kitchen island, also at waist-height, where the sink and dishwasher are installed, with plenty of countertop left over for a cutting board and two potted plants. It stops just before the refrigerator against the wall, but is still an impressive feature of the room. On the half of the island further away from the stoves and oven is attached a raised platform about a foot high and a foot and a half wide, still spanning the entire length of the island. Right up against this bar are placed five wooden chairs on tall, stilt-like legs.

All countertops are made of a lovely shade of dusty white granite, with copious thick veins of variating hues of honey marbling the surfaces. The cupboards above the counter and the many drawers below are all a dark yellowish brown. The floor is tiled with large marble squares - dark grey veins running through cloudy milk. The walls are white with just the slightest hint of gold.

A block of knives, a stand for paper towels, a coffee-maker, a toaster, all the typical kitchen appliances and more are neatly placed and organized on the counters against the wall. Everything that could be made of metal is a gleaming stainless steel - the refrigerator keeps drawing the eye as light plays across the wide reflective surface. The stove top is a dark matte grey, the same color as the windows in the microwave and oven. A large wicker bowl full of fruit is placed at the end of the countertop against the shorter wall.

On the wall just behind the island bar and chairs is a huge french door, providing a view to the backyard patio. Long windows stretch away on either side of the doors and light up the room; the domed chandelier on the ceiling is almost completely useless.

---

The second description is from a high-school-senior-year-side-partner-book-project that I didn't get very far on. I liked describing stuff that was happening instead of actually advancing the plot, so it's no wonder my friend and I soon lost steam on it after not even a year. But yeah, that bedroom was the room of the character I was in charge of. I just changed and added a few aspects.

I noticed as soon as I described a library, a bedroom, and nature, I was completely stumped as to what to write next. Unless I'm with friends or in school, I don't really go to many other places. It's hard to describe a shopping mall or a classroom without either thinking that it would be a place I'd like to hang out, or thinking that it's a desirable safe spot for anyone else. In the end, I just came up with a random kitchen. It was really hard to write, as I don't like kitchens enough to have an idealized version in my head, so it's my least favorite of the bunch. But hey -

Food.

---

Three hours left to wait.

"This Is Gonna Be The Best Day Of My Life"

Close your senses. Bear with me for a minute.

It's dark all around you, to begin with. Got it? Now imagine soft yellow light illuminating a stage - nothing else. There's a raised platform on the back of this stage, on which a covered drum set has been set up, two giant speakers on either side, and five mics set up front along the edge with smaller speakers between them. Three small risers are also set up left, middle, and right just behind those speakers. A smaller drum set, uncovered, is placed directly before and below the one on the platform.

Now imagine the light spreading to the rest of the room. You're in an old-fashioned movie theater without the seats, complete with balcony up and behind you. Walls are creamy white with circular murals of a Romantic-era tree, and the carpet is a dark maroonish hue. There are four small tiers in the room, going from wall to wall, with metal railings along each step - except for the walkways, of course. Everyone is already crammed into the first and lowest tier, the one closest to the stage and the only one not carpeted, so you nab a spot in the middle of the left side of the third tier, right up against the rail. You're close enough to have a good panoramic view above the many heads, but far back enough to avoid less-restrained fans.

You had been standing in line for more than three hours in 35° F weather, and the entirety of both feet is numb - not the deadweight, senseless kind of numb, but the stinging, painful numbness one melodramatically associates with imminent frostbite. You limp (though it is nigh impossible with both feet incapacitated) to the merch booth in the lobby with the teenage girl you made friends with in line, leaving your college friend and the teen's dad to hold down the fort. The other three guys from the line have already long disappeared into the first tier crowd.

(You can't believe the girl who stayed with you is only 13, she looks at least 16. She's almost taller than you.)

As you're about to buy your shirt, you see the lights suddenly turn off in the theater, which is predictably followed by a short round of screams by many pubescent girls and boys (and some older too, no doubt). It's only the intro act though, a band called This Wild Life, so you carry out your purchase with no rush before squeezing back into place next to your friend at the railing.

The two men are good. Their music, while not exactly soft, is slow and relaxing, with more acoustic sounds than electric. The singer has an extremely luxuriant beard, and the guitarist wears a navy blue tank top with the words "Stone Cold University" inscribed in white on the front. You make a note to search for this top later. You also notice the very pretty watercolor-esque paintings on three screens set up left, middle, and center. They depict one person per screen, except their heads are giant clouds of mist. You think of someone who would appreciate that.

After two songs, the guitarist trades in his electric guitar for drumsticks, and the bass speakers are brought into play.

You finally realize the power of a good subwoofer.

Seriously, every sound the drums emit is blasted in shockwaves across the room. You can actually feel your jeans moving against your skin with each blast. It hits you right behind the sternum too, right behind your stomach, and makes your ears vibrate. You turn to exchange gleeful looks with your friend, and find the teen girl is also giddily grinning at you.

After their set, the soft yellow lights go back on and the entire room is illuminated again. You continue to stand, unsure of what's going on, until people start to come onstage to test and tune guitars, and you realize it's intermission. Still standing, you examine the V-shaped marks on the back of both your hands that a man put there with a Sharpie while you were in line, presumably to prevent you from buying alcohol. You compare them with the marks on the other girls' hands. It makes you feel badass, like the people you see in class with black X's on the back of their hands. It's proof you lived last night, proof you have a life.

The next band is much more loud and raucous - Beartooth. They say they like performing in small rooms, and your town's theater is the smallest yet on their extensive world tour. Their metalcore music consists largely of a deafening cacophony of six guitars and a drum set, and two vocalists - one melodic, the other screaming. The screamer tries to start a mosh pit in the first tier. Your clothes start to shake again, and you feel more lively, like you want to jump and maybe - not headbang like those in the first tier - just nod your head back and forth. Those in the second and third tiers are more reserved and are barely moving at all, and you feel it would be out of place if you did even that. You don't want any attention. The lead vocalist, during a break between two songs, says, "It's not about singing, it's about screaming until your voice breaks." He asks the crowd to go crazy for them, and they respond. At least, the first tier does; the rest of you just nod your heads and maybe bob up and down. Their music gives you a heady sense of recklessness; the flashing lights only amplify the feeling.

When their set finishes, your ears are ringing. Though there is only a murmur of conversation around you, you can barely hear your friend talking. You have to ask her to repeat herself twice.

Everyone is ready for the next set, and start cheering loudly even before the members of Sleeping with Sirens step onstage. You notice six members; you thought there were only five. You try to scream your appreciation as loud as you possibly can, but you can't hear your own voice - that's how loud everyone else is. They start with their newest hit song, Kick, and even though it's only been out for a couple of weeks, everyone is singing along, word perfect. You can't see much of Kellin's face because when he sings, his bangs cover his eyes and nose and he makes no move to brush them aside. You don't know the band's second album as well as the first, so you can't sing along for the first two songs except for the choruses. You realize, halfway through belting out the chorus of "Congratulations," that you are leaning far over the railing from enthusiasm. The flashing lights of all colors and blasting smoke cannons amp up the crowd even more.

Then the other members of the band leave but for two guitarists with acoustic guitars, and Kellin talks to the crowd. He says he has strep throat but couldn't stand the idea of letting you all, his fans, down tonight, and you all cheer for him. He asks for your help in singing the next song, and starts his acoustic cover of Iris. He occasionally pauses to let the crowd sing by itself. You can hear your friend next to you for the first time, putting everything she has into her voice to sing the lyrics with him. You video a short clip to add to your Snapchat story, because who hasn't listened to Iris? The crowd cheers the loudest it has yet when he finishes. The rest of the band rejoins him, and they play songs you know better, so you scream your voice raw, trying to sing the lyrics you know so well as loud as you can.

There are small GoPro cameras set up onstage that are projecting a live feed of Kellin's face and sometimes the many guitarists' hands or the drummer onto three screens, at at one point Kellin accidentally knocks one over. He continues to sing, but crouches down to try and fix the camera stand until a backstage hand rushes onstage, and Kellin returns to performing as if nothing happened. You can see his wedding ring at times, and you notice it's unusually thicker than most, and silver as well.

He finishes "If I'm James Dean, You're Audrey Hepburn" and starts another short speech. He talks about getting older, hair is going gray (you all boo at this point), his saggy ballsack is getting saggier. At this, you all cheer again and laugh because it's the most ridiculous and funny thing you've heard tonight. He continues to say he's not ashamed for the young kids who heard because he knows the parents gave them consent to come, and they are the weirdos too for being fans of his band. He starts up "Do It Now, Remember It Later," your favorite song by them. But you start to feel your throat getting sorer. It hurts, but you continue to yell the lyrics as loud as you can. You didn't come here to skimp on the full experience just because of a little pain. Kellin responds to the energy you give him; he is extremely active, all swinging arms and tossing the mic in the air and running and falling to his knees. Somehow, even with strep, he hits those impossible high notes perfectly. The guitarists move around a lot too, headbanging while they play. One guitarist, Nick Martin, tosses out his guitar pick to the crowd after nearly every song. At the end, he throws handfuls of spare picks out to the groping hands.

By the time the lights go on for the third intermission, you and your friends have already sat down on the step under the rail. You know the drill now. Your friend is still smiling like a crazy woman. She says she is so glad they started with Kick. She shakes her head, still smiling.

Your feet, all toes included, have finally defrosted by this point.

You see a brown-haired girl on the second tier in front of you. She's holding a guitar pick against her face, under her right eye, and is crying, the shocked kind where her face is absolutely loose with surprise but tears are still coming. She's kind of turning slowly on the spot, eyes vacant and unfocused. While you are happy for her, you think it's a bit weird.

There's only one band left - your favorite. As the lights turn off and the background banner rises, emblazoned with the words "Pierce the Veil" in their signature font, you jump to your feet and cheer as loud as you possibly can - louder even than you did for Sleeping with Sirens. By this point you know how to scream, how to use the lower back part of your throat to let loose a guttural yet relatively treble yell that you yourself can finally hear above the din of everyone else. You can hear yourself, and you scream again as they walk onstage. This is YOUR band. They start with your first favorite song of theirs, "May These Noises Startle You In Your Sleep" and "Hell Above," and you scream and cheer and sing and scream again until it feels like your vocal chords are being ripped apart by sandpaper. You notice the three members with guitars like to strum a note, then hold their guitar above their heads to let the note resonate.

They finish that two-part song, play another one, then move on to "Hold On Till May." Vic starts off with an inspiring dedication: "This next song, goes out to all of you people out there, who put on your headphones in the morning and listen to music from the time you wake up to the time you go to bed." Since all you've been doing lately is listen to music - when you're doing homework, walking from class to class, as you eat - you appreciate this more than you thought you would. Therefore, you try to sing along as loud as you can, but your voice is starting to give out after hours of abuse and it begins to seriously hurt to strain for those notes. You continue anyways.

Your voice isn't the only one faltering, though you're both giving it everything you've got. After the rest of the band leaves the stage, Vic tells the crowd during his speech that he woke up sick with no voice that morning - sick enough to have to visit the hospital that day - but he says he got it fixed "because I didn't want to miss this show for you guys," and the crowd cheers back accordingly. He holds an acoustic guitar and asks for the crowd to sing along too, as loud as they can, to give him some help. He starts playing "I'm Low On Gas and You Need a Jacket", and the crowd complies, singing and swaying back and forth. You can tell Vic is straining; his voice cracks twice in his reach for the higher notes. He pauses to let the crowd sing alone, and your voices swell up to fill the gap as he strums the chords. He pauses once more intentionally before his voice finally gives out. He sings the first word of the line, but can't finish it; he tries again for the next line, but is yet again unable to sing.

You and the crowd finish it for him. You continue to keep on singing, word for word, without Vic's voice for backup. He continues strumming chords for a bit for you until the instrumental-less part of the song begins and he ceases all movement. He stares, smiling and astonished, as you all keep going, this time without either his voice or guitar, and even get the small vocal run right. At the beginning, everyone is still yelling the lyrics, but as Vic makes no sign of returning to sing, the crowd loses a bit of confidence and softens their voices, and it sounds like the actual song, soft and slow and quiet. That is, until a group of guys yell, "Yeah!" that's sung in the original, non-acoustic version, and you laugh and cheer and raise your voice again with everyone else. You all finish the last thirty seconds of the song without Vic, and he returns to the mic (he had slowly backed away in amazement) and says, "Holy shit. That has never happened before." You all cheer. He says he can't ever say you all weren't there for him, and you all cheer again, louder, if possible. His face is all smiles. He insists on trying again in order to finish the song with you, and this time when the boys say, "Yeah!" he points at them like he's cueing them.

The rest of the band join Vic on the stage after to play their more upbeat songs. You are unashamed of jumping and fist pumping and screaming as loud as you can now; all embarrassment during Beartooth earlier has disappeared. You notice Tony looks like a boy from your old high school robotics team, and think he looks cuter in person than in the pictures - not hotter, but cuter. Jaime goes nuts at one point, somehow managing to somersault across the stage behind Vic, and skids off stage, exit right, behind the curtains. You all laugh as he returns, still ripping. Mike is a devil, grinning all the time, throwing his entire body into playing his drums and headbanging like nobody's business. You had learned recently that he has multiple Harry Potter tattoos, so you cheer especially for him too. Vic plays his guitar while singing, and you note he has a habit of slightly turning his head to his left and away from the mic to hit the higher notes. When he sings the "o" sound, his mouth stretches into a vertical oval, like an opera singer's is wont to do. You find this amusing, for some reason - he doesn't do it in his music videos.

During one song, a white bra is tossed onstage, and a backstage hand, ducked down low, runs onstage to grab it and get it out of the way. The same thing happens again with a rolled up poster. You laugh for both.

Then Vic does something unexpected. After a song, he asks for a fan to be a volunteer, and predictably, everyone's hands shoot up. He finally pulls a girl from the crowd (her name is Sydney), sits her down on a platform, and sings the first verse of "Bulletproof Love" to her. She mouths the lyrics as she sits, occasionally smiling and covering her mouth, or putting her hand over her heart - not in a cheesy way, but more like she's so happy she can feel her heart aching and she's trying to still it. Though you're sure everyone in the crowd is jealous, when Vic pauses again to let you all sing without him, you scream your souls out for the girl too. She looked overjoyed and humbled when Vic sang to her, eye-to-eye, but looks on the verge of tears when you all sing for her. You hope she never forgets this night. Vic hands her his pick, and she's escorted off stage while the band finishes the last half of the song.

Of course, since Pierce the Veil is touring with Sleeping With Sirens, you've known ever since you got tickets that they're going to sing their trademark collaboration together. Sure enough, Vic goes offstage and returns with his arm slung around Kellin, and the noise the crowd makes is ear-splitting. You raise your phone to film King For a Day, as it's your favorite song and those two bands don't often have the chance to play it together live, but discover your battery has run out. Just as well - you can focus entirely on the song, and you do - you jump and fist pump and sing more loudly than you have the entire night. The lights are flashing like crazy, silhouetting the band's figures. Vic and Kellin climb the two giant speakers on either side of Mike's drums, and jump off at the height of the song. It is a brilliant end to a brilliant concert.

As you walk out of the theater with your friend, you notice as you're talking that your voice is considerably lower and extremely raspy. The back of your throat is sore, sorer than it was when you got sick last month. Your ears are still ringing from those awesome speakers. But you tell yourself it was worth it.

Oh, was it worth it.

---

It must be fairly obvious, but I didn't make this whole event up. I attended Pierce the Veil and Sleeping With Sirens' World Tour concert last night, and I can easily say it was the best night I have experienced yet this year - even trumping the night of my prom after-party.

I wrote quite a lot, but I know memory fades quickly, and soon I won't remember the details of this concert, let alone what songs they sang or what words they said. I wanted to record every detail I can remember, so I can read this and experience the concert all over again. That being said, there was a part I couldn't find a place to fit in, and it is this: There was a girl in the second tier before me, and she was nuts, absolutely nuts, for the entire show. Not only did she headbang, but she threw her entire body into it too. Some guy was tickling her, and she pursued him, violently tackling him and actually running into a girl sitting on the floor. Also, when she danced to the music, it was something akin to the wobble, but much more writhe-y and active. When she jumped, she brought her knees nearly all the way to her chest. She did this all throughout the concert. Me, my friend, and my new friend all said we were scared of her. I'm glad she had a good time though.

Oh, also, what I presume was her mom poured water in her long hair and flipped it back. She was right against the railing, so a wet tendril smacked me across the eye. Not cool.

But anyways.

I don't really know how to describe how I felt when PTV first came onstage. I'd seen their faces so many times, but only in pictures and videos. It was surreal seeing their faces in real life. As I mentioned, Tony really does look better in person than in pictures. I don't know how to choose a favorite, either: Vic is an amazing singer and can be quite funny; Mike, as I said, has the Harry Potter tattoos (including a vato Hedwig and the Deathly Hallows sign on the palm of his hand - ouch); Tony is the quiet, shy, and adorable one; Jaime is hilarious in interviews and has the best sense of humor.

(I want to mention at this point that I'm not a "fangirl," I don't obsessively track them and what they're doing, and I never ever ever want to meet them in person.)

The doors were supposed to open at 6:00 PM and the concert itself was supposed to start at 7:00 PM , but my friend and I left campus at 3:00 PM in order to get in line early. They started letting us in around 6:20. Surprisingly, This Wild Life began to play early, at 6:50, and after King For a Day ended, it was 11:00 on the dot. I was so warm when I left the theater, I didn't even feel the 32° F temperature though I only wore a t-shirt and jeans. My friend and I got back to campus around 11:30 (the bus wasn't as sketch as I thought it was going to be), and by the time we got back to our rooms after a late night pick-me-up at our favorite campus cafe, it was near midnight. And even then, by the time I finished writing notes here so I don't forget details about the concert, it's almost 2:00 AM. But I don't (EDIT**: didn't) feel the time. I've never felt so alive before.

I had to skip one class and one recitation to go to this concert. Do I regret it? Not a chance. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Nothing compares to the joy I felt last night. In fact, I wish I could go again, but they're already long gone to the next city. They probably won't tour again together for a long time. This might be the only concert of theirs I ever attend while I'm still young.

SIKES.

As we were leaving the theater, people were handing out small flyers, and it appears that both PTV and SWS will be returning at the end of January, but this time to the capital of my state and not the small town I live in. My friend and I are already investigating tickets. Thankfully, this concert will be on a Saturday, so I'm not forced to cut any more classes. Also, I find it interesting that she is a bigger fan of SWS, while I am a bigger fan of PTV. Between the two of us, we represent the two spheres of possibly the most popular post-hardcore bands that are most associated with one another.

The title of this post is a line from Pierce the Veil's song "The Sky Under the Sea."

EDIT** (12-9-14): In the heat of the concert, I forgot a lot of details and exact words that the artists said, so as more and more people are uploading videos to YouTube, I remember more and more stuff that I couldn't exactly recall the night I got home. Therefore, this past week nearly every day I've been updating this post. Sorry it keeps getting longer. I'm not confident about the order of the songs listed, either - the names are correct, though, they really did play those.

I think today's the last day I have something to add, because that awesome quote Vic said had eluded me ever since the concert, and I finally found a recording of him saying it, so I added it. Hopefully (or not, depends on the way I look at it) it will be the last addition.

---

I was lucky to find this video below. It's of the concert last night, when Vic's voice gave out during "I'm Low On Gas" and we, the crowd, filled in for him. It's great to watch, and know what's going to happen before it shows in the video. I was there. I was physically there. The thought is amazing.

---

To all of you who put on your headphones in the morning and listen to music from the time you wake up to the time you go to bed.

Scattering of Stars

The stars are pitiful tonight.

Honestly though, when I was down south in Sequoia Natl. Park, I could barely make out the only constellation I recognize, Orion, because there were so many stars in between. And I could see the Milky Way. Faintly. Just barely there. But still, it's the first time I've ever seen just a hint of it, and it was gorgeous. The fact that I was surrounded by glittering snow both "above" and around can only add to the effect I was experiencing those nights.

It was a bit of a letdown coming back home. Hey, my eyes have to actually flicker to make out the next speck of light. Oh look, there's the big ol' neon orange city, glowing away. The one time I tried to take a picture of the stars in my backyard, with prolonged light exposure, three dots came through. Three. Really? Is this what we've given up for our beloved nightlife? The problem seems so much bigger than usual when you're right in the thick of it.

I don't want to rant anymore, not really in the mood. Jasmine hot chocolate does wonders for the mind.

---

I’m lying on some surface. I don’t really know what, but it’s something, because I can feel it beneath me. I hear a whooshing sound, so I must have ears. In opening them, I discover I have eyes. 

The first thing that registers is white: bright, blinding light. I squint and use the appendage at the end of my arm to shield the glare. Hand, I think dimly. This is called my hand. I wonder with vague curiosity where the memory comes from.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the light, I let my hand drop back down to the surface. Then I can’t do much more than sit paralyzed with stupefaction, because there are an infinite number of stars spreading above me, so thick I can barely tell one from the other. The great moon hangs off to the left, and I realize its light was what blinded me when I first opened my eyes. The stars cluster around it, swirling in thick streams across the heavens. 

A handy branch hangs next to me, and I lean on it, blinking around at the scenery. I see a jungle sprouting up not a hundred meters away. In front are these massive black lumps. I listen closely, and discern that the whooshing noises are coming from those lumps. Whatever those things are, they’re breathing. Like I am. One lump shifts, and the moonlight outlines a reptilian head, curled around its body. The whole thing is lying on top of a dirt nest.

 Dinosaurs.

 I don’t know where that word came from, but I know I have to get out of here. I stumble to my left, away from those dinosaurs, as if the moon were pulling me towards itself. I start to run, but branches still whip my face, scratch my arms, and finally one giant root trips me. I extend my arms, close my eyes, and brace for impact that never comes.

---

My eyes finally open again. I’m lying on a bed, with dirty linen sheets on top of me. The stars no longer hang above me; instead, I see dusty wooden rafters. Something clinks below me, and a voice mutters odd words. Carrots, lentils, celery. I sit bolt upright, because it’s a human voice. In flinging back the dirty sheets I realize I'm wearing even dirtier linen clothes. But no matter. I hesitantly climb down a rickety wooden ladder, turn around, and come face to face with the voice.

I'm standing in a wooden room. A small table is crammed into a corner, boxes of various objects are stacked haphazardly in another, and a fireplace with a mantle above it occupies the left wall. A figure with a spoon is stirring something in a pot that hangs on a hook above a fire.

Then something strange happens. Another image flashes above the homely one. The wooden room is now made of sterile metal. Instead of a small table, there is a sleek platform jutting out from the equally smooth wall. Instead of messily stacked boxes, there is a glossy silver filing cabinet, with one drawer open. And where the fireplace was, there is a countertop with random beakers and papers strewn across its top. The light comes from a fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. And the figure is in a stark white coat.  Instead of a spoon, it holds a syringe of clear liquid.

The image is gone as soon as it comes. I blink, unsure of whether I really saw that vision.

The figure turns, and I realize it’s a woman in a dirty print dress, with a stained apron tied around her waist. She smiles at me, and gestures to the table. I realize a bowl of food is sitting there, and just then do I realize how hungry I am. The food disappears.

The wind howls outside. I tell the woman I appreciate her taking me in, though I do not remember it. She smiles at me, the crow’s feet wrinkling around her eyes. I gather up my pack, put on a heavy coat she offers me, and open the door.

It is night out, and the moon sheds silver light on black lumpy haystacks, so much like those dinosaurs. The stars are still up there, but it seems to me a few of them have disappeared. I can actually make out the sky behind the lights now. I sigh, and take a step forward. 

---

Before I even open my eyes, I feel my body rocking back and forth. The movement is soothing for a little bit, and I keep my eyes closed and enjoy the sensation. There are clumping noises above me, though. The sound reverberates in my little area. I open my eyes, and see a flat wooden ceiling above me. Sloshing noises register in my ears for the first time, and I strain to decipher where it comes from. Everywhere, it seems.

I groggily swing my legs over the edge of the hammock-net I am lying in, and stumble towards the door at the opposite end of the stiff wooden room. The floorboards pitch me towards the door and before I can stop my momentum, I burst through the door.

I find myself standing in a short corridor, the air reeking of fish and smoke. There is a ladder at the right end of the corridor, with thick yellow light streaming in through the trapdoor at the top. Staggering and tripping all over myself, I finally make it to the ladder and pull myself up.

 The air up here is fresher, though the briny smell still lingers. The wind tears through my loose garments, and I shiver. Callous voices are shouting to one another, as people rush back and forth. The floor rocks under my feet again, and I grip the edge of a crate, staring, openmouthed, around.

 I’m on a ship. Thick timbers rise up like trees around me, their trunks heavily laden with ropes and rigging. Shadows cast by brightly flaming lanterns dance on the dark shapes. I’m facing the front of the ship, and I can see the prow ascending and dipping as it crests each wave. Barrels stand in groups here and there; one barrel has been knocked down by the ferocious wind, and a deckhand runs after it, slipping in the puddles of water.

 A stocky man swaggers up to me and asks me where I have been. Leaning back a little (he did smell rather strongly), I point down the trapdoor. He grunts and gestures toward one of the towering masts.

 There’s something about this man’s voice that differs from the woman’s. The cadence was off, the lilt was different, the accents stressed on different syllables. I just couldn’t place it.

I reach the mast and run my fingers across it, feeling the rough texture. I can count the stars above me with ease, but the black space between each glowing dot has grown bigger since I stepped out of that woman’s house however long ago. I squint at the stars, but the light from the scattered lanterns blinds me, and my eyes cannot adjust to the darkness needed to see those pinpricks of light. I peer carefully at the disappearing stars.

Fresh shouts split the air. I turn as a whistling sound comes toward me, turn just in time to glimpse a dark barrel, hung on a net of ropes, swing towards me. There is no time to do anything but stand and stare at the dark shape speeding towards me. In the split second before it hits me, my eyes catch the stocky man’s, and I see him with his hands above his head, his mouth open in a half shout. His eyes are wild.

The barrel caught me in the chest. I felt it crush my sternum, felt my spine curve around it, felt the briny air leave my collapsed lungs to make room for the unforgiving wooden boards. I fly, soaring backwards, my body a knife cleaving a path through the suddenly solid air. The lights speed away from me, then shoot upwards as I begin my fall towards the sea. The air scurries out of my way, and I hit the water with such force all the air I have managed to regain is pushed right back out again. My back screams dimly with pain, and I sink face up, the edges of my eyesight turning dim and wavery. I’m too surprised to obey my instincts to kick, to swim, to reach the air receding from my crushed lungs. I can’t do much more than think, there go the stars.

 ---

I don't, I- uffa.

At least I finished this one. It's time travel. That's all you have to know.

Seriously, I'm just sitting here, asking myself, where did this come from all of a sudden? I need a hobby. Well, one that I can carry out without a horse and an arena.

I'm going to stop explaining myself. Instead, I will share a song I found on Pandora, coming back from Sequoia. I had an irrational female connection with it, as in this song, quote-and-quote, "really got to me." Maybe it's hormones. 

The Script. "This=Love"

Rising Part 2

Apologies for the late post - I was too busy enjoying a view of the BIGGEST. TREES. ON. EARTH. in Sequoia National Park. Of course, with great enjoyment comes great sacrifice - I had no service or WiFi for four days.

I realize that I should finish my no-plot/no-effort/no-idea-umm-what's-going-on-guys story I started last time. It was all just an excuse to write down a cool setting and a half-hearted attempt to add plot to it.

I'm lazy. Sue me.

---

Yes, a cliff. A cliff roughly 200 feet in the air to where it met the lip of my cave, and then extended about 100 feet more above me. It was a long one-way trip to the craggy rocks the sea washed, but I had conquered my fears a long time ago. I considered myself a very rational person, and told myself I did not have a fear of heights, just a fear of falling, and time had acclimated my senses to my airy loft.

Of course, I couldn't hide away in my cave all the time. I would surely starve. The same man who helped me with my doorway curtain had built and hung a sturdy wooden platform outside the opening of the cave that I could step on. A pulley system allowed me to  lift the platform up to the top of the cliff. When it was first built, a rail had stood on the two widths and the length farthest from me, enclosing me on three sides and leaving the cliff wall to be my fourth rail, but a strong wind had blown up from the sea a couple of months ago and smashed my platform into the cliff. Luckily, I wasn't on it at the time, but the rails had broken off and I hadn't the skill needed to repair them. I reassured myself with a doubly strong grip on the ropes and continued using it.

I reached out and pulled the ropes to me, my toes still clutching the rim. The platform swung a bit as I stepped on, but I had come to enjoy the vertigo of the sheer cliffside. It was a short fifteen seconds to the top, and when the platform stopped just below the top of the cliff I had to haul myself over the edge.

By this time the sun was a good ways above the horizon and the birds were out in full force. I stood up and surveyed the flat green plains that stretched for miles in each direction. There was a small town to the east, but I avoided it whenever I could. I didn't like the stares the women there gave me, muttering about properness and civilization.

I pitied the people in the cities. There was no quiet, no privacy, no breathing room. This place was all mine. I breathed in a deep lungful of air, exhaled, and watched the smoke dissolve into the rising sun.

---

I'm bored. So much for that.

Since I spent so much time at the national park, instead of researching a cool animal/plant I'm going to regurgitate everything I can remember about Giant Sequoias from reading/learning from the park rangers.

• What I think the Latin name is: Sequoia sempivirens giganticus. What it really is: Sequoiadendron giganteum. Ah well.
• The biggest living tree IN THE WORLD is General Sherman (biggest meaning volume, not height). It's about 2,100 years old? Idk, you'll have to check that yourself. The person who discovered it named it after Sherman of the Civil War because he had served under him. However, some other socialists bought the land it was on and wanted to call it the Karl Marx Tree. In the end, since this is 'Murica, the park people went with General Sherman.
• The seeds look like flakes of oats. 
• Fire is necessary for sequoia growth, as the heat rises up and makes the cones open and drop their seeds, as well as killing harmful insects and fungi and clearing away the duff on the forest floor so the new seedlings don't have to compete with dead debris.
• The third largest tree IN THE WORLD is the General Grant (Ulysses S.) Tree. This baby is the National Christmas Tree, in case you were wondering, and also a national monument in honor of the US soldiers.
• Their bark contains tannin, the same as redwood, which is fireproof and mostly bug/fungi proof. However, unlike their redwood cousins, sequoias have soft heartwood, making them less than ideal lumber choices. This is why so many of them were eventually saved - because people couldn't make money off them.
• The National Park Service badge/insignia -
                        
  
  
  has a sequoia on it as that tall tree because 3 of the first 4 National Parks were created to protect sequoia trees.
•  The Centennial Tree was cut down in 9 days by two men (I think, I get all the days mixed up, there was another that took 13 days) in the 1800s, cross cut and cut even more into smaller pieces for shipping, and shipped over to the East Coast to show them how big the trees were in California. Their reaction? They said it was a "California Hoax" and was assembled from many different trees.

Oh yeah, and I guess it's New Year's Day. Whoops. Happy New Year's!

Last thought: My grandma got me the book I Am Malala for Christmas, and I finished it last night. The book touched on a poem that really got to me.

     First they came for the communists,
     and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.
     Then they came for the socialists,
     and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.
     Then they came for the trade unionists,
     and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.
     Then they came for the Jews,
     and I didn't speak out because I was not a Jew.
     Then they came for the Catholics, 
     and I didn't speak out because I was not a Catholic. 
     Then they came for me,
     and there was no one left to speak for me.
                          - Martin Niemöller

Niemöller had lived in Nazi Germany. Make of this scrap what you will.

See you next year.


***PUNNYPUNNYPUN SONG:*** 

The Final Countdown, by Europe

Rising

The first thing I saw when I came to consciousness was nothing. Strangely, it's what I always do first, I try to use my eyes above all other senses. I snuggled deeper into the folds of my blanket, tucked my head further under the edge, and kept my eyes closed, enjoying the warmth and security of a good comforter.

I had a long moment to use my other senses while my eyes enjoyed their prolonged break.

Next sense - touch. Not much use, I couldn't feel anything further than fabric. My hand brushed up against my face whenever I curled into fetal position, and I could feel one foot resting atop the other leg, pulling the leg of my pajamas askew. I felt my hair slanting messily across my face - I resisted the urge to blow it out of the way. With me on my side, gravity would pull it back down, and it wasn't like I was trying to see anything, so I let it be. The longer I focused on my sense of touch, the more I became aware of. Not so useless, after all.

I took in a deep breath and inhaled a lungful of crisp, clean air, the kind that's so cold it feels like it's purifying your lungs before your body temperature warms it up and expels it as a cloud of wispy smoke. The air didn't smell like anything, so I took another breath and this time detected something tangy and sharp that momentarily made my nose wrinkle up a bit. It was a smell I knew well, though, and I easily determined its source. I stuck my nose out from beneath the blankets, then quickly drew it back in. No more smells, as far as I could determine.

I couldn't taste anything other than my own saliva, which is basically tasteless since it's in your mouth all the time, so I didn't dwell too long on that sense.

Lastly, hearing. I could hear the wind whistling, very very softly, as it blew past my front door. Beyond that, nothing. My shelter is the strongest there is - even a concrete skyscraper can make grinding noises in a tough wind. My abode was perfectly silent. Beyond the wind, I thought I detected a gentle washing noise, but I couldn't be sure. I had buried my head after all, and that created an effective sound barrier.

I sighed. Even with everything else, so much was out of context without the luxury of my eyes. I hoped I would never go blind.

Just as I thought this, a faint reddish glow appeared. I finally opened my eyes, looking through my long hair at my hands, and beyond that, the bedsheets and a rocky wall. I watched blurry lines sharpen as the sun came up behind me, throwing the crevices in the wall in sharp relief. I smiled. My favorite part was coming.

I sat up, my hair tangled and sticking up in many odd directions. Am I usually so focused on the way my hair looks? It didn't matter. I turned to my right and stared straight into the growing glow of the sunrise.

My house is the best.

I pulled my legs up until I sat cross legged on my bed and watched the sun laboriously heave itself over the rim of the ocean. Most of the sky was still indigo blue, but it brightened to green, then to what I call seashell pink as it got closer to the sun itself, which was surrounded by a halo of cream and the shade of golden maize. The stars were hanging on until at last the green expanded to take them, and they went as silently as they had come. It didn't take long for the sun to fully emerge and change the sky into a riot of scarlet, mauve, and amber streaks, with a little bit of lavender underlining the bellies of the clouds. The ocean, eager to share in the sky's glory, took on a dusky golden hue.

And to think I woke up to this every morning. I may have mentioned, my house is the best there is.

The sunrise was shedding copious amounts of light around my little room now, and I could finally use my eyes to scan the area, making sure everything was as I had left it. My room was essentially an oblong cave that was about 20 feet across, 12 feet tall and extended 40 feet back. I had situated my bed at the very back parallel to the wall (well, as parallel as I could get it along the curved face), along with a delicate wooden nightstand next to where my pillow lay. My favorite shells lay arrayed upon it. To my left and closest to me was a modest little vanity table, with precious little scattered on its surface. Further along that wall was my dining table, a little wobbly on the rocky floor but still very stout. It had a white tablecloth draped on it, and my only vase with withered wildflowers. Dammit, those weeds never lasted very long.

My right wall was dominated by my birchbark canoe. It lay face down, its paddle next to it, and was surrounded by neatly organized boxes and crates - some stacked on a shelf (it was whipped together with driftwood and 8 nails. It's a miracle it hasn't fallen apart yet) - filled with anything I could find or afford: food, clothing, rope, cutlery, dishes, and the like. One box contained my oddities, like my bright strands of ribbon or a silver pendant without a chain. Above all  this I had hung a long rope, supported by two poles in the "corners" of the room. On the rope I hung my dried garden harvest, away from the dirt on the floor. I didn't have a place to cook it in this cave, because a fire gotten out of hand could easily trap me in a heartbeat, so I had a campfire above-ground that I hid with long swatches of grass, in case a curious backpacker came by.  In the middle of my cave lay a braided cotton rug of medium size, undyed but, for some reason, still as clean and creamy as the day it was made - which was quite a while ago. Two rugs of a more modest earthy color lay in front and behind it; the second one was close enough that my feet brushed against it when I scooted forward and stood up.

I enjoyed the warmth of the sunrise as it intensified and drove away the chillingly cold breaths I enjoyed a few minutes ago. My entire cave was bathed in light, because I had chosen last night to leave the curtains pulled back from the mouth of the cave. Someone, a long time ago, had helped me hammer brackets from which to hang the pole and the curtains - a dangerous job. He was the only one who knew about this place other than me, and he had disappeared long ago.

The sky turned a brighter blue as I brushed my hair, and my cave lost its ethereal golden glow. I set the brush down, put on some proper clothes, and walked to the mouth of my cave. My toes felt for the edge and gripped the rim like a vise, to stop me from toppling as I leaned over and stared down the craggy rock face of a cliff.

-----

I will finish this little blurb next week, as I already wrote far to much for a standard blog and because, well, I just don't feel like it. I do what I want.

Question: Why does the sky turn colors during sunrise and sunset only?

No animal summary this week, also too lazy for that. Maybe I'll add one as an edit?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Roosting

Why can't college apps finish themselves? Can't we just dictate the most important facts of our lives to a microphone and be done in a few minutes? Why must they vary?

The season is stressing me out, and I need to relax. Finding a quiet area in a busy suburb town can be difficult, to say the least, but having a nearby canyon is pretty handy. 

Other than the occasional energy bar wrappers and crushed Arizona cans, Mills Canyon is like the drought-tolerant Central Park of Burlingame. I started going there at an early age with neighborhood friends, and when I fell out with them, continued to go there alone. Pretty soon, established trails started to bore me – I think at one point I could’ve walked some paths blindfolded – so I began to pick areas adjacent to the path that weren’t covered with poison oak and simply went wading through the dried foxtails. This year, I went off the path in a new place where I hadn't thought to go before. It was through this venture that I discovered what I call Roost.

Roost is a huge boulder, perhaps 15 feet tall and 20 feet in width, that lies at the bottom of the canyon, directly next to a small creek. It partially juts out over the water, creating a small pebbly cove where I hide whenever I hear people on the trail. A tall but skinny oak tree lies between Roost and a smaller boulder a few paces away; other than that, the surrounding ground is relatively clear of foliage. On Roost’s other side, an older, taller oak tree grows nearly flush to its side. All around this clearing, dark ivy covers the banks. Oak and bay trees are more densely clustered; their canopy filters the sunlight and casts dappled patterns on every surface. When I was younger, I would pretend the wind was alive and sentient. It would tell me of the places it had been, and whenever it rose from a gentle breeze to a strong gale, I believed it was I who, through some magical force, had controlled the change. I still do believe it, sometimes.

You cannot begin to imagine the feel of wind against your uplifted face and closed eyelids unless you have actually experienced it first-hand.

Of all my sanctuaries, it was Roost who taught me to breathe. I could relax atop it, secure in the knowledge that no one below could see me, and listen to the sounds around me. I could hold on to a thick branch of the adjacent oak tree and run my thumb over its rough bark – in concentrating solely on the texture of the branch, I could drive out all other unpleasant thoughts. It is my site of meditation, my eye of the hurricane, where I can doze and let my troubles leach out of me into the granite below. Without Roost, I don’t know how I would’ve stayed calm all those years. Maybe I wouldn’t have. The thought makes me appreciate all the more what Roost means to me. It will be hard to replace in the coming years.

I'm sure the site of a haven varies wildly for other people. They may find their place of contentment in a dusty library, or perhaps in a summer house. Maybe their peaceful environment is their backyard pool, or situated among the white noise of a large city. I, I climb the highest point I can find and let the wind breathe for me.

 Sensitive Plant (Mimosa pudica)

I came across this plant ages ago, when river tubing (Is that the name? We were using inner tubes) down a river in Puerto Vallarta in Mexico. The tour guide had pointed it out where it grew along the path, and invited us to touch the leaves. What would you expect to happen?

The sensitive plant has a most amazing defense mechanism: it withers and folds in on itself whenever it is touched, or otherwise warmed, blown upon, or shaken. They reopen minutes later (so you can touch them again and watch them fold... and again... and again... unconscious hypnosis). They also close during the night, and open again during the day. There are about 10-26 leaflets per pinna (leaf stem thingymajigger, I don't know. Context, man). Their seeds are contained in brown pods and are mainly pollinated by insects. They produce round flower heads that range from pink to pale lavender. Have a picture, I can't describe the shape: 

They are most commonly found in South and Central America

If you have taken Biology, hopefully you know what turgid means. If you don't, here's my best explanation: The reason plants are usually so crispy (think of the base of a romanian lettuce leaf) is because the spare space in their cells is filled with water. If our cells were like that, they would burst under pressure, but because of the strong cell walls that plant cells possess, they merely swell up but keep their shape. This is part of the reason why plants can remain upright without a skeleton-like system (I think... it makes sense, right?).

Knowing this, when a sensitive plant is touched, specific cells release chemicals like potassium that force the water out of the cells and cause them to lose their turgidity - i.e., they become soft and wilted. As the signals go away, the chemicals are no longer released and the plant resumes its natural form.

This is so cool I can't even handle it. Why bother with a Cool Facts list?

Cough, cough.

Cool Facts:

• The sudden movement might also serve to dislodge harmful insects.
• It's other common names include humble plant, shameful plant, sleeping grass, touch-me-not, chuimui (that which dies upon touch), pickerweed, and ant-plant. There are a lot more cool names in different languages.
•  Aqueous extracts of the roots have been adept at neutralizing the effects of the venom of the monocled cobra.
• They are used as groundcover by some landscapers. I don't comprehend why, but ok.
• It is one of the world's worst invasive weeds.

This song has been bothering me as of late, because of how strongly I connect with it. Or rather, how I think its theme must have connected with someone I used to know. Our relationship has perhaps been one of the biggest regrets of my life, and I wish we could have mended ourselves before they left. I wish that I would be able to at least see them again - alas, most likely, I never will.

Say Something, by A Great Big World :

Synthetic Constellations

It was the wind in winter's ribbons that took me up with the roman candle. I shielded my wide eyes from stinging iridescent lights, my neck craning and stretching back. Colored stars - golden, violet, crimson - fell shining like cosmic palm fronds, rushing for the silver mirror below, flashing, crackling before winking out and fading into smoke. Each firework was my chariot, each burst my burning waterfall, each roar of the cannons my wild laughter. My breath came in time with the sparks above. My heart was shaken into rhythm by the tremors, like a tremendous pulsing sub woofer.

Imagination grew wings, flippers and legs all at once. The fire, well, it consumed - drew everything together in once blazed moment.

[inhale] Boom.

A steep precipice falls away beneath my feet, golden brown and crumbling. Dry, cracked fingernails scrabble behind me for purchase, toes gripping the edge like a vise. Nothing much above but a sky the color of someone's eyes, clutching a precious nugget. The cliff opposite, streaked with dusty rust and plum shades, fades in and out of focus - a tree growing and bursting into boulders that went raining down - the side swelling slowly as some force tunneled from the inside - a set of jagged cracks speeding in outline until it crumbles, inside out, releasing a [exhale] red-tailed hawk. Dark wings stretched, growing in span, becoming Mother Nature's Blanket of Night, peppered with hummingbird holes. One flight feather, falling away from a limb, spiraling down, buffeted, slowly swirling in elongated fashion towards me. My head feels light, as though gravity decided it no longer wants me. It's getting closer. Boy, you could knock me over with a -

I go tumbling down with the boulders, that innocent barred feather swinging back and forth after me.

[inhale] Boom.

I sit at the end of the long line. We are crammed against the wall in a bleak carpeted waiting room, with gray pencil cacti placed unceremoniously in three corners of the room. The only source of light is an unshaded fluorescent bulb, hanging from the ceiling. Its harsh light cast shadows on our [inhale] taunt, drawn faces. In the last corner there is an unassuming steel door. We all start as the doorknob shifts and a nurse enters the room. She scans a long checklist, looks up, and calls out my name.

I follow the woman through the door into a [exhale] stainless steel room. Varied instruments lie on a sleek silver tray. A man with a dark shock of hair greets me with, what seems to me, false cordiality. He shakes my hand and guides me to a chair. He eyes me calculatingly as he pulls out a small syringe. I think, I hate needles. The man smiles icily, and tells me not to worry - a sharp, jabbing pain; he had stuck me in the arm with that needle, and my vision swims. 

I wake up in a shifting, ethereal world. I can't make out the glimmering lights around me, though they hover just out of reach. I try to blink, and discover [inhale] I can’t. My peripheral vision tunnels, as I move what felt like my head all the way around to see. It was dark, the space reaching outwards, and I start to feel a sense of claustrophobia when a beautiful French door - false gold gilt - appears in front of me. I desperately clutch at the handle and stagger through. 

The door slams shut with a snap, and I am suddenly hovering uncertainly over a roiling, tumbling mass. Everything in black and white. I turned my head with painful slowness, and saw that a craggy black rock looms in front of me. It seems to exude light through its blackness, feeding the small fig tree clinging to the surface. I am drawn to that pathetic tree, but the longing scares me. I turn, [exhale] urgently sweeping my eyes left and right, trying to find an exit out of this horrid place, but that small tree, glorious in its uselessness, follows me. I run, somewhere, anywhere, but that tree keeps following me. I can’t stand it.

[inhale] Bo[exhale]om.

A vast expanse of blue grassland extends to the horizon, dotted here and there with gnarled trees and bushes. Clumps of dark heather bends before the night wind, sending their whispering voices along with the breeze as it moves between the leaning stems. Above the grassland, stars twinkle coldly down from high in the heavens. Their hazy bed of indigo velvet stretches across the roof of the world; everything beneath it bears its color. The full moon [inhale] silvers the edges of  indistinct objects, so that the whole of the grassland looks as though it has been brushed across the top with shimmering dust. Everything is silent, save for the blithe wind, who continues to tumble its way across the dark grass, rustling the heather as it goes.

                 

At the farthermost edge of the horizon, I watch silently as [exhale] a slight purple glow appears, steadily arching its back to fill the indigo sky with a crescent streak of violet. The crescent pulls up a slight line of green as it ascends, who in turn drags with it the muted colors of pastel orange and red. The new colors gaze out across the blue and silver grass, shake out their bright robes, and toss them across the sky. They paint over the shadowy grass with streaks of pink and orange, reaching out with their arms until the sky is a glorious blaze of golden and crimson rays, heralding the way for the sun. It's not until I feel its warmth that I realize I'm shivering.

[inhale] Boom. 

[exhale]

The great finale starts, a ricocheting mass of gold fountains, green sparklers and screeching rockets. I shake the hair out of my eyes, cheering with everyone else. Whatever force possessed me slips away, my images dissolving like morning dreams before I remember they even existed. Does this happen a lot? Do others experience this mental flight? I can't remember; my heart's still vibrating, beating in time to the synthetic constellations above .

[inhale]

Let me light the last fuse.

--

 

Just a song that's been stuck in my head a lot as of late. Explicit - i.e. one F-Bomb. Just in case though, if you care.

Human After All, by Twin Atlantic.

You do not know how hard it was to not choose "Fireworks" by Katy Perry. 

[exhale]