Clear blue skies, clouds non existent as the pathways and walkways and stoned streets become alive with the sound of fevered noise. The running of feet, into each other and clatters so loud, you can hear the scraping off a shinbone and wailing cries of infinitely proud and prospered children. Their voices so crystal, terrific in how loud they yell for attention. Their lips pursed so vainly by the constant knowing that today is every day, tomorrow is nothing they ever live for or ever dream of living for. They shout and bay for blood, they run and walk and scramble about in their own underused sense of righteous. They have no demons, their torture is the 5pm drag on Winter nights, lulls of insecurity and playful days lost to the aching of time as it disintegrates into the far reaches of living light.
Right now it means little, they will not spend minutes contemplating the painful passing of sun and hope and joy and a worthwhile passions sullying. Their effervescent is caught in the light, fuelled in June of every year on a pathway and walkway, on streets that tell their own stories of glories past, of a time and place where they grew up to find themselves. Often in fury, rich in laughter, forever in perfection. Their games become their victory, to challenge the world to dare, who blinks first? Who becomes the captain of all things, who owns these streets for all eternity and who stands meekly by the wayside wondering. Who has everything and who gets nothing?
The lesser kids, the ones too proud to associate with hooded corners, walk aimlessly home, hands by their sides and faces melted into the roaring sun. Mishapen, mistaken, mistook for chatter and street talk veiled in a threat of yesterday. Old news, the day before’s news, cast out adrift to a tidal wave of gleeful ignoring and graceful anger. “Not one of us” “You are not one of us” Retreat to the shadows, exist in isolation. Breathe in air so heavy, damp and toxic, it fills their lungs with a death soon forthcoming. They see no sunlight, only despair, they breathe no life only death, they stare at their feet and feel only suffering.
The other kids, the kids in light and joy and happiness, start again. They shout and scream and plead and play and becomes as one in every day. The scorched sidewalk, burned bright with a thousand feet, a hundred thousand steps of Summer. It welcomes every one, it holds their love and soulful joy in its entirety. This is home, this is the last place where such passion is felt so pure, this is where remaining freedom is left to linger without examination, without contamination, without a sense of moralising the masses or passing judgement for judgement’s sake. The incessant howling, of laughter and tears and screams so loud they crack the semi pavement and break its heart. The reaching of their eyes into the sunlight, its staring back at them and daring a further dream, its captured them in its grasp and tilted them away to a better place. There is only beauty here, there is only light. There is only children to disappear when Winter’s night.