the mystery of overnights.

Sometimes, memories overwhelm you. You find yourself sitting on the bed, incapable of getting yourself ready to sleep, and you begin thinking about the most random of all things.
Like now you stare at the ceiling of your room, the room you moved in only six years ago. Six years already. So, as you sit surrounded, or perhaps bathing, in shuffled music from your itunes library [something that the romanticized version of myself likes to think of as "the soundtrack of my life", which is evidently the cheesiest thing ever. But then again, I define cheesy] each song being the marker of a place, a summer, an overnight..., and so as you sit, you think.
You think about the many overnights that this room has played host to. The number of times that you sat with the lights on, your eyelids hungry for the close, thinking about those around you who were buried deep in the silence of night, walking, sleeping, sleep-walking, peeing, etc. And then your childhood calls you into your older room, the other room; the one that made sure you were tucked safe in your bed each night by 10 PM. But your childhood now lurks scared behind the doors of your old house. And that, is another story.
As you shift from this memory, you directly fall back into another one. A night at your grandmother's house. Your cousins have just arrived from the states, and their jet-lag means that the whole house is to remain awake at night. With them arrive your roller skates [a hobby that you would ultimately give up on]. So 3:30 AM, on this otherwise hot night, the house is lit, loud and ambient, and you are going around in your nightgown and your rollers, skating the night away, [and falling, please], thinking with pride: wow, I have never stayed up this late in my life.
Of course, graphic design would change that.
And then just when you are about to let go of this memory, another one finds its way to you, like the short string that needs to tie itself to another longer thread for it to be functional. An equally uninteresting memory, that laces itself to that first memory, making them one. You suddenly remember the room where your cousins stayed, a room with two beds, and strong air conditioning [a luxury you had not yet discovered at home,] and that funny watermelon bubble-gum smell that you loved...

In conclusion, there is no conclusion, any more than there is meaning or purpose in what I just wrote.
Nor is there an uncovering of the mystery of overnights, just in case you were wondering. The title was just to lure you in.

Tara, land of the dear Scarlett,


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