This night is like a Howling Bells song. For some reason I go better with those nights. Soft rain hitting the streets and putting that special effect filter over everything. People in the bus have this look on their face, a haze in their eyes, their thoughts captured elsewhere but here. A girl in an orange dress sitting in the pale light of a bus station, her eyes fixated on a far spot beyond the curve of the street. So beautiful. And I almost didn’t go out.
When I was little, being sick had this appeal to me that made it a cool thing. Of course I didn’t like really being sick, but over time every young boy learns how to fake it. You’ll learn that it takes little to trigger that turning point in your parent’s mind for them to decide “you’ll stay at home today”. All it takes is to make them worry just a little.
Writing is a funny thing. It doesn’t really do something, you know. There is no magic to the process itself; fingers typing letters, a hand writing words. Writing is not the most brilliant idea man invented in a gazillion years. It doesn’t kill poverty, it doesn’t cure cancer, and it sure doesn’t burn rotten trees.
I grew up not far from a river. It was a broad, dirty green water stream, not at all as romantic as in Huckleberry Finn. But as a nine year old you are not picky about running waters. Every place that provides a hideout to stroll around and play with your life is a magnet to a boy.