lishesquex | Chomskyan emo post is emo

I was walking through the city listening to 9 Crimes tonight, like I did once before. It was a clear, balmy night, with no stars and timeless city lights, and the rumbling and dinging of trams always nearby. And moments of almost pure silence, too, of nothing but the sound of piano in my ears and the feelings that were filling my heart to bursting.

I still remember all the small details and events surrounding that night. The smell of the city, and the feeling of walking directly into a diverging future. The choices mapped out clearly before me, the hopes and fears of each step, and how the only cloud in the sky that night was uncertainty.

I remember that I had been researching in the Baillieau Library for a Semantics assignment, trowling through giant tomes of the Oxford English Dictionary. I remember trying to delay my homecoming because I was so afraid that I would come home to silence. And that therein would lie a terrible choice.

I remember the purity of emotion, and the knowledge, even then, that this night was special. The sort of night you experience once or twice in a lifetime. The sort that will define you for years after, and haunt your dreams.

It was a night of vivid clarity; a night of truth that reigned in a time before the halfways and half days that were to come. I remember the undistilled idealism and naivety, and the first, fresh quickening of that sick, hopeless hope. And yet, it must still be that endless budding season, despite the myriad silent winters that have passed.

And though I have never hoped, I must confess that I have often dreamed of our lives, in a world conceived on this night. They lie in my breast, unborn and oft unwanted. More like weeds, they lie in a death-row repose, desperately expectant. And though I know that it's a crime... still, in the secretly nurtured earth of my traitorous heart, these colourless green ideas sleep furiously.