Of Conversational Nostalgia
I met with a friend a while ago. We walked through the blackest pit of night when the
silence was only cut by the slow rush of a moving car, and the spitting rain seemed to turn into
liquid gold as soon as it met the street lights. The wind was all about us, and the trees howled a
strange melancholy. We were in the midst of a conversation that seemed to transform us back
into the mystical days of childhood where a woman was unfathomable to our young minds. We
talked long about love and life and fleeting relationships that were built by the heavens and
cursed to the damnations of fate.
Intricate, it travelled us to the farthest reaches of space to where gleaming nebulas of
stars were only possible in the deepest parts of imagination. And we laughed, and we smiled,
but as we walked, my smile faded. My grin turned cold and the lines in my face felt forced;
stretched and attached too far to the back of my head. We wanted nothing but to keep on
talking, yet at the same time we wanted to stop because we knew that once we finished
everything was going to be bleaker. And the world just seemed to be a little colder until we
looked to sleep for unjudging deliverance into the brightness of a new day.
- Duncan Konings