Don't Fake This

There's a set of train tracks a few miles from my apartment. Freight lines, the occasional Amtrak run. You hear the whistles calling all through the night, rising and falling as the engines pass by. Sometimes it's distant, almost romantic in its lonely call looking for another in the darkness. But most of the times it just becomes a part of the background noise of the neighborhood.

I keep a window open most of the time. Partly because the cats like to perch there, but mostly because I like to hear the sounds that filter in.

One of my downstairs neighbors likes to blast Iron Maiden songs when his girlfriend is at work. The old lady in the house next door has friends over once a week, and after dinner they all like to sit on her front porch and swap stories. Cars race by. Every now and then the air conditioner clicks, gurgles, and then whirs to life. There's a little chain attached to the lights on my ceiling fan that tends to click like a metronome once the blades get up to speed.
And above it all, all night long are the train whistles.
Sometimes it feels like there are so many noises all around that you can't even hear yourself think.

But then there are other moments when all the sounds stop. When all there is are memories flashing through your mind, somber recollections that burn through your senses like wasabi on your tongue, or whiskey in your throat. Moments unintended, like a recipe card or forgotten phrase, weighing on your shoulders with the kind of clarity that's almost as brutal as it is sweet.
The picture in the phone.
That song on the radio.
The bracelet on my wrist.
The person on the screen that doesn't really know she is there, but is smiling back at me anyways..
It wasn't really all that bad of a movie.
It was just a little hard to watch
[Listening to: Chevelle, "Closure"]

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