The night air felt sticky and heavy on her skin. It was like having a fleece blanket wrapped tightly around you during the summer. She sledged through the mucky atmosphere and pushed against the restriction of her imaginary blanket as she made her way from the car to the dance studio. The smell of wet cement and city smog were the cause of the air’s heaviness and stickiness. The familiar smell filled her up– past the brim of her emotional cup– with the sensation of pleasure. The soft patter of the raindrops on the rooftops greatly entertained her; the loud cords of the grand classical piano music commanded her movements like the loud commands of a coxswain to its rowers. The loud cords over-powered and drowned out the relaxing rain, yet it put her more at ease than the rain. The sky– from which the heavens spilled out– was the color of the outside of the yolk of a hard-boiled egg– you know that weird grayish-yellowish film that covers the yolk and sometimes sticks to the white. It looked as if the apocalypse was finally happening; yet she continued to dance through the end of the world as if it wasn’t– well– the end of the world. She could so vividly picture the streets below being ravished by the creatures that were brought by the dooming event. The lulling music consumed her; it calmed and soothed her inner-apocalyptic creatures that ate away at her nervous insides, which had created those terrifying beings. Not but eleven minutes later, the gentle rain subsided, and the sky had changed colors from that dooming yellowish-grayish tint to the gentle shade of orange that resembles orange or mango sherbet. The sky was melting down behind the skyline of the old, rusting, decaying downtown of the only city in which she had ever lived. The rooftops of the ancient buildings and the steeples of the renaissance churches must have poked holes in the sky and drained it of that awful color; like water being sucked through the drain of the bathtub. A short seven or eight minutes later, the tangy sherbet sky had melted away and in its place was a dark, rich, creamy sky of a transfixing navy blue midnight hue, which– she thought to herself– must be where the color ‘midnight blue’ comes from. Like a vortex; it sucked in her attention, emptying her of that ability. The sky had finally and completely, totally enthralled her; it had taken away any former ability and willingness to focus. Like she was under a hypnotic spell. She then– at that very moment– became a slave for the sky, which pushed her further and further out of familiarity and into unfamiliarity.
The Unfamiliarity of Familiarity
September 6, 2016