My shoulders bump against my friends' as we pass through the gated fence. Leftover droplets of last night's storm drip from the cool metal posts onto their sweaters, dark splotches emerging on their heavily-clothed arms. Desperate vocals tumble out of my earbuds, each line delivered with a sort of suppressed madness that both contrasts and compliments the numbingly-smooth percussions that accompany it. The incomprehensible lyrics flow a river into my awaiting ears, and I soak up as much as I can. It's my favorite song.
I've played it so many times on repeat that I know it ends in a minute and a half. Irayo ewya, we're alive. It's my favorite line. Irayo ewya. I'm walking through dark mahogany bookshelves, scanning for a nostalgic iSpy picture book. Irayo ewya. I'm sprawled across my living room couch, letting myself fall into the gentle clutches of sleep. Irayo ewya. I'm looking up the lyrics. "The phrase Irayo Eywa is from the fictional language of the Na'vi from the movie Avatar. Irayo means thank you and Eywa is the guiding force and deity of Pandora and the Na'vi. She's thanking Eywa for her life."
Irayo ewya. I'm scuffing my worn-out combat boots on the rain-soaked pavement. I turn to my friends and smile. "This is my favorite song," I chirp, the warm air of my voice blowing clouds in front of me. They know what I'm talking about. A small burst of adrenaline rushes through me when I hear the foreign words, and I feel the urge to make the most of it while it lasts. I half-skip, half-walk ahead, jumping into small puddles of muddy water along the way.
"There, that puddle's a big one," I hear behind me. Sure enough, a small ocean spreads out a few feet away. I could swear that if you squint, you could almost see its own waves. I plunge both feet in without hesitation.
Small brown droplets burst against the blacktop in torrents. Light-hearted laughter echoes across the relatively empty space. It takes me a while to recognize that it's mine. I feel my socks seemingly freeze over with the new dampness. The already tight denim of my jeans feels like it's been plastered to my calves. I can't bring myself to care.
Marceline, you're breathing in gasoline.
The song fades.
YOU ARE READING
Open To Interpretation
PoesíaThis is a collection of some of my old poems, short stories, and other writing that I created a few years ago, while I was going through a really rough patch in my life. I wanted to publish it back then, but this is the best that I can do for now. E...
