Friday, June 15, 2007

Writing Party #1

The leaves draped dramatically over the edge of the piano, threatening to reach the keys and play a somber sonata.

Or maybe I just wanted them to, because a sad song would complement my mood so perfectly.

I sat in the coffeehouse, listening to the slightly-skewed intonation of the struggling band playing in the background. I found myself being overly critical, and felt mean; the band wasn’t terrible, and their music actually melded into a soft but welcome distraction from my own thoughts.

I was walking by the window of this place tonight, and despite the fact it’s hardly out of my way, I’d never been in before.

The soft orange lighting made the coffeehouse look warm, and the d├ęcor was just simple enough to feel homey and almost quaint. While not normally my style, the small crowd gathered around the band looked oddly intimate, and whether caused by the frigid winter air or the loneliness I felt, I was drawn inside.

I sank into a soft couch, soaking up the novelty of this place I’d never been before. How comforting to place my mind somewhere that my eyes couldn’t find a million memories of you.

Without physical escape, I realized, there was no mental escape.

And, suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

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