Ghosts of Summers past

Is that even good? Does it make sense? Reclining in the false wicker chair, I sigh and lean back a fourth time. I bite the end of my pen hard, but my thoughts are a mess. Weak, cliché, boring, stretched. The tip of the pen scrapes back and forth across the mentally discarded lines, and as the ink fails to come out, embosses the paper in a scribble. Furiously scratching against the loose leaf, I manage to coax some blue out of the pen, and redouble my efforts to remove any evidence of now lost art. How can I finish this? I shift my weight and place my hands on the armrests, propelling myself towards the door. Grabbing my notepad and a mangled pen in my right hand, I head across the room. The sound of bare footsteps is indiscernible against the cool white stone tiles as I tread past the keyboard. My hand clasps the golden doorknob and turns, and the door swings open into the moonlight. As I slither around the door, I slap the lights off with my left hand, and shut the door with a sealing hiss of air.
I step out into the night; a heightened sense of awareness grips me. A mysterious quality fills me with a sense of life and elation. Peace is in the air of the night, tranquility radiates from the moon, and solitude lies in the stars. My eyes follow scan the slithering path, leading me to see the front garden, dressed humbly in a gown of black and grey. To my left, moonlight that managed to find a way to peek through the tangle of leaves and branches spots the grass, but can barely overcome the sea of darkness that coats the lawn. My attention is broken as a light comes to life in the window across the street. After a few seconds, the petite silhouette of a young girl dances past the window, invoking memories of a night that stole its grace from a novel. An ethereal hand gently brushes mine; I imagine I can feel the breeze of the ocean mist on my cheeks as I look up at the stars. From within them, I think for a brief second that I can see those passionate eyes burning back. The light is soon flicked off, the memory recedes, and I begin to grow increasingly aware of the simplistic beauty of the world given to me.
As I come to, I make my way towards the middle of the lawn. Dampened grass kisses my well calloused feet as I wander into to the centrepiece of the yard. I continue on, and thick wooden bark grapples with my skin as I run my hand along a branch hanging over my head. The natural world ignores my disturbance, and floats on in its I sit myself down in the swing, and take out a pen and a small notepad. Freely swaying, the momentum of the seat creates a lullaby of calming motion. Looking around again, I think: “I've been here hundreds of times. Why haven't I seen any of this before?” I write down every phrase and word that the night environment inspires, every emotion it evokes, every passion it ignites. After a while, my mind runs out of creativity, and to recharge, I decide on a walk.
Someone, perhaps imaginary, told me: the trick is not to care that it hurts. The numbness of my feet against the unforgiving pavement is a testament to that. In the silence of the night-time, my sense of hearing is amplified, and at the same time, tricked by no one else but myself. If there is any sound in the world that could be considered ambient, the randomness of the night would have to be it. Half a mile in every direction, a car begins to accelerate out of a turn. The whistle of a summer breeze rustles the long grass, and flirts with the leaves. In a strange harmony, crickets sounded off their chimes. Above my head, a narrow column of golden dust floats, creating a vortex of particles shining in the luminescence of a solitary street lamp. It becomes exceedingly hard to think that this sight isn't magic, seeing how the air seems to be filled with these specks of gold, invisible until placed into the light. Despite a multitude of noises, the air is tranquil, and inspires a sense of relaxation. The nighttime is a sanctuary in which I can find some peace from the chaos of the day, from the week, ... from the month of May. In my mind though, the sounds I want to hear are all but absent. In my mind, a sense unknown to the other five plays through a traumatic series of fights. As I experience these, a longing to hear the apologetic voices of lost friends taunts me,and places me uneasily on edge. Why could I have let myself slip up so badly? Hindsight bias and regret pair up to create a surge of uneasiness and sorrow. Despite this, the gentle night is there to comfort me, and looking back down the street, I realise at this time, that I should go finish.