A technicolor mess.

Sitting outside on the balcony tonite, smoking a cigarette, I noticed the air felt cool, heavy and still. The sky wasn't completely dark, but the streetlight that was burned out made the scene appear darker than it truly was. I sat in silence, surveying the surroundings from my heightened view. I debated whether or not to say something out loud, to interrupt the nite's emo-worthy moment. "No", I thought to myself, and instead, I honored the evening's improptu sabbath and remained silent. I didn't want to take the chance of my neighbors hearing me talk out loud during this quiet time, anyhow.

Out of the pitch black abyss, and into a tiny patch of street lit up from a flood light from someone's front porch, I noticed a man wearing baggy jeans and a black hoodie running down the street. I was tempted to yell in his direction, "Its nite time and you're not even dressed for running! Why are you running?!" Instead I just continued to smoke my cigarette and watched him jog down the street, past my house.

"Neat", I said to myself, out loud.

I'm convinced that the eerie, mysterious aura of tonite was due to the mis-communications that I experienced earlier in the day. The melancholy tone that hung in the branches of the hovering, tall oak trees of my neighborhood; none of that was real. It was a figment of my imagination. Something I had created to make myself feel as if some being out there understood me, other than myself. The sky and street served as the eager canvases in which my inner-most private thoughts decided to paint their self portraits upon, Jackson Polluck style.

It was a technicolor mess to say the least.