a litany of ruminations

anemoia

*disclaimer:

Ponyboy Curtis , Sodapop Curtis, Darrel Curtis, their parents, Dallas Winston and Johnny Cade are characters belonging to S. E. Hinton in the book The Outsiders. I do not own them, and are merely borrowing them---for my, and hopefully, your amusement.

Based off of the end of Chapter 4.

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Anemoia (n.): nostalgia for a time you've never known

Sometimes in quiet moments of solemnity and silence I can close my eyes and dream.

Dream of a time where none of us knew the meaning of death.

I can see it so clearly it hurts, an ache of something in my chest where there used to be something bright and soft and shining where two people used to be. Maybe one more than the other, but---

I can feel the hollowness, the absence what it left in its wake.

Oh, I wish.

I wish.

I close my eyes and dream and I don't want to wake up.

I dream of a place out in the country far away. Out of towns and away from excitement, lean back against the worn bark of a tree, shaded from the sun and read a book. Gone With the Wind, maybe, or draw a picture. Not worry about anything. Light, carefree, not worry about Socs or carrying a switchblade, knife heavy weighing down with the threat of violence balanced on its very edge.

The country would be something like that, with green, green fields and golden wheat and blue sky. No Socs or greasers. Just plain, ordinary people.

I'd have a yeller cur dog, a mutt just like I used to, and Sodapop could get get Mickey Mouse, his palomino ornery pony back and ride through the fields under an open sky and ride in all the rodeos he wanted two.

Darry wouldn't have to be an adult anymore, old beyond his age and carrying the weight of the world, shouldering the burden of keeping the family together, cold hard look melting as that weight was lifted and he could walk feather-light again.

Mom would bake some more chocolate cakes. Man, we were—and still are—crazy about chocolate, whether in cake or candy form and we'd all chow down, salivating with anticipation.

Dad would slap Darry on the back and tell him he was getting to be a man, a regular chip off the old block and they'd be as close as they used to be—like father, like son and he'd drive the pickup early to feed the cattle under the light of the rising sun.

Maybe Johnny could come and live with us, and the gang come out on the weekends and maybe Dallas would see that there was some good in the world after all. I mean, if there's chocolate cake there still has to be good left in the world.

Mom would talk to him, and make him grin in spite of himself, keeping him from getting into a lot of trouble.

Dad has dark brown eyes like the Mom's chocolate cakes, sweet and gentle and strong and Mom is golden and beautiful, with hair of sunshine spilling over the land, soft and warm.

It's like living on clouds. I eat and eat and eat but the dream can't fill my stomach, so I keep on starving.

Sometimes I want to fall asleep and never wake up again, comforted by the sweet lies my dreams whisper to me instead of the harsh truths that confront me when I wake.

I've never liked reality.

I like my sunsets and clouds and dreams, the same sunsets they can see over at the West Side.

I lie to myself all the time, but I never believe me.