fireworks

No consequences

The throngs were seas. Sweat. Bright lights. Excited chattering. High voices. Salty breeze. Hard, gravel pavement. He stretched, hands behind his back, locked, and pushing out.

The sky kept erupting in beautiful colors. Frequently. How much money it must have cost to put those things in the sky. For what? A few minutes of entertainment?

“You can see it best from the highway.” The excited voices of his friends pointed in that direction, and they trudged onwards. There were people in droves. Masses of humanity.

The lights twinkled in the city that never slept. Twinkled but never died. Never faded. The wind was breezy. Cars rushing about, the constant background noise that was present in every city, didn't have to be a major city, but was most prevalent here. The smells of garbage and puke, and pizza, and diesel from cars. The smell of salt, and all the waste that went into one of the most famous - by association to this city, mind you - rivers in the world. The taste of the air that could not decide what it wanted to taste like. The feel of the well walked gravel, again, because of this city. 

He yawned and stretched again. He was usually in bed and asleep early by any stretch of the imagination, but tonight was not a night he had wanted to miss. He had been in this city for three whole years. He hadn’t seen the Statue of Liberty, he hadn’t done any of the things he considered mundane, boring, and a waste of time. People, in his opinion, got so caught up in the ‘things to do’ that they forgot to stop and look around. If he hadn’t been looking around, he wouldn’t have noticed little Brazil a block away from Times Square. That wouldn’t in turn have become one of his favorite memories. And what would he do without those things that he remembered fondly and smiled because of. But tonight, he figured it was worth it. How? Because his friends were going. And because when they did this, they went all out. They were leading him on. They were more excited about this than he was. He was here for them. Mostly. They wouldn’t be his friends in a few years. People he barely spoke to. But for now, they were. They slept together. They woke together. They did all sorts of activities. They might not be his best friends, no, that special title was reserved only for two special people. But they were good friends. And even though there was a distinction, it still mattered a good deal. Not the distinction. Them. They mattered a good deal. To him. They had reached their destination. Right before the highway, which was right next to the river. The explosions had already begun. Splashes of light in the otherwise mostly dark sky. They overshadowed the full pale yellow moon. This country, his hometown was celebrating yet another year of murder, massacre, and acting as dictators of the world. Overgrown bullies.