Beneath a Sky of Reds, Whites, and Blues

    


    The fireworks began around 9;30, I was posted up by the boat docks, beer in hand, several others already down the hatch, chair reclined and body pointed at the night sky. Fireworks have always astonished me, always left me in a sense of awe. As a child the booms and bangs scared me, my mother having to cover my ears, yet I always remained to watch them. I'm 24 now and nothing has changed, I still adore fireworks, and being a little inebriated, they awed me more. Fireworks bring a sense of freedom, as I suppose they are meant to do, but not necessarily from an American standpoint. I love my country, don't get me wrong, and I love what the 4th means and what the fireworks mean from that, but they mean much more to me than that. In a somewhat mystical sense, the fireworks represent me and how I feel, a cluster of powder just waiting to be set alight and jump into the night to burst into colors and flashes of light, to awe and spectacle, to show the world its magic. It visualizes my feeling of rut, my stuckness in life and mind, how I wish to break free. Having typed this I realize I'm unintentionally paraphrasing Katy Perry lyrics, but if it gets my point across so be it. 
    The 4th of July fireworks always reminds me of the scene from The Sandlot when they have their annual night time baseball game on the 4th, the one night where the sky is lit up from working fire light. Something about that scene strikes a feeling of nostalgia within me, makes me reminisce of being young and playing baseball with my dad and sister. A better time that was, a time when I knew too little and that was a great thing. 
    All in all I'm just undertaking a post-drunken Fourth of July solo nostalgic rambling, but what else is new? If not to write then why have feelings at all? Not every piece is gonna be some auteuresque, Kerouac wannabe prose, sometimes its just gonna be feelings and thoughts jotted out in nonsensical form. Which in itself is somewhat Kerouacian, I reckon. This site is called Blogger, after all, not The Next Great American Novelist Via Spontaneous Prose-er. Hell, I don't know.

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