Feeling (Vaguely) Poetic

There is a magic to dressing up, mic tests, taking print outs, live tweeting to an imaginary audience, and deciding on the temperature of the air conditioners. Mundane activities meld together and dissolve into the air to make a promise, a potential of things to come. The afternoon saw a round of formal introductions and much pen scratching on paper, brain scratching on idea. A few hours later, two yellow school buses bound towards the beach to the music of many voices exchanging ideas simultaneously. There is an energy in that moment, where it does not matter who you are or where you come from, what is important that there are all these ideas in the air, and that we must talk about them as quickly as possible before the evening fades in the night, and tomorrow steals away today. There is a poetry to playing a childhood game on an empty beach, full plates, starting a conversation with a stranger and finding out you have the strangest connections, intellectual or otherwise. It takes a space like this to conspire to bring us together, to loosen our tongues, loosen our minds. This is the shifting, magical ground of pre-friendships.

Slices of light capture an odd glimmer of an eye, light up a profile in soft washes of sunset. Spectacles flash, reflecting a stray headlight. A horizon of green-ness gives way to the fullness of the moon. The night reveals its own perfection, and for a few hours, we are part of its completeness.

The day, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, delivered.


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