I could recall beauty in separate, slow polaroids, one after another. The world was moving fast around me, unswervingly coherent with the pace of my legs, as I run as if I were in a dream.
Laughter filled the air and into my lungs; Amana ran behind me and Golden-Hair-Honey-Eyes had me at my hands in front of me.
The clouds drizzled and there was no shelter anywhere around. Like everything that’s natural, so was the desire to live forever. I wanted to taste every flavor of adrenaline there was. I wanted to love like there was no time left for me in this world. I wanted to immerse in every last pleasure left abandoned.
And, it hurt me to think this would all be over soon. Was my life at the time the little “world” I spoke of? What if it was heaven, more than anything else?
We were in Luna Park – a heaven – and Amana and I just met Golden-Hair-Honey-Eyes when we got on the Ferris Wheel.
“Golden-Hair-Honey-Eyes, where you from?” I asked him.
“Wollongong, you?” he replied. His eyes gleamed in the faint sun. He had freckles scattered like stars in a night sky across his face.
“I’m from Liverpool. Amana over here, though –”
“Bexley,” she said.
“Cool. Let’s go to the Magnetic Fields after this.”
Hastily, as if we’re running out of time, we jumped out and ran yards into some future I knew nothing of.
That night, we walked by jacaranda trees in some old suburb. Although the streets were almost empty, I could hear music of deep melancholy ease into my ears; it was as if the jacarandas were bidding some sort of farewell to me.
“Goodbye, Golden-Hair-Honey-Eyes, you’re never going to see me again,” I felt nervous and funny, how a stranger could matter to me. The streetlight flashed above us; not more than the mere silhouettes of our features were apparent under our pixel autocracy. He pulled me into an embrace – there was nothing weird or awkward about it. It was the first time.
We were young, and nothing in the world mattered because we were.