The street is quiet as purple evening skies overtake the neighborhood. Everybody is pissed about the time change and the early dark, it seems, except for me. Somehow it all just feels dreamier when there is smoke in the cold air and the stars glisten clear and bright in the deep blue heavens.
I take a drag of my cigarette and blow out the smoke in a startled huff when a huge ass dog suddenly barks like a foaming junkyard maniac as I stroll past his six foot high chain link fence. I once heard the dog these people had before this one pinned the lady of the house to the kitchen floor one cold winter morning, snarling and threatening to maul her face off before the monster-sized man of the house pried it off of her. They put that one down and acquired another of the exact same breed. How insane people are, getting these massive animal creatures that turn on them out of no where over a bowl of corn flakes and orange juice or whatever.
As I round the corner where the lawns are especially sprawling and well manicured, the face of a crooked plastic jack-o-lantern which is nestled into a leaf-covered bush comes to life, its sinister orange glow grins a wicked grin and laughs aloud at me. There is something eerie, or maybe just weirdly unsettling, about decorations laying around deflated and gloomy after the holiday itself is over. Like they are trying to invoke a thing which seemed so very real before it turned in its grave and vanished into history. It leaves a stale taste in your mouth to think about how another entire year will have to pass before you experience that festival again.
How much can happen in one year, how much can change. You can put your whole spirit into something but eventually it will pass because it has to. That is the way of things and there is nothing much one can do about it. When I arrive back home, the man of my house hands me a glass of wine and asks me how my day was. Just another day, I want to say. Just another day not over fast enough and gone up in smoke far too soon.