As the haze of sitting in front of a very large screen fades, misty eye, I made a joke. Each of my friends cracked a smile, feeling safe knowing that everyone else teared up, too. The end credits started to roll as the last soundtrack of the film played just a sliver too loudly, nudging us to the exit. I checked my coat pocket for my keys, phone, and used ticket. Soon, the raggedly torn ticket will be taped on my wall so I can remember the beautiful story.
We made comments about handsome actors and the movie’s flow and cinematography choices on the drive home. Eventually, we fell into silence. The vastness of the lawns felt unnatural as we drove through my neighborhood. Grass and plants, while dead for the winter, felt artificial. It was like seeing my street after a long trip. It’s familiarity, yet inevitableness, grabbed my attention, allowing to me to objectively look at the details and the oddness of my life, which typically seems so uninteresting and normal.
You want to come in?
I’m rather tired actually.
I’m hungry. Next time, friend.
Inside, the colors of the sitcom reflected onto the glass doors as the dog bark to say hello. I threw my keys, phone, and coat off as I yielded questions from my father about my night out.
Quickly, I went upstairs to escape the noise. I opened my laptop, habitually, as if I wanted to check Twitter or see the mass of emails that I’ve been ignoring. The harshness of the blue light and the cluttered screen felt off putting. I wasn’t ready for it yet. Instead, I sat on the corner of bed, aimlessly, my mind still trapped in another world.
Isn’t that the point of storytelling? After a good story, I like to steep on them like a tea to remember the adventure that I just witnessed. I want to feel its presence and fold over each plot point as if I a child, curiously moving small rocks to look for worms in the dirt. I like to take a pause; because whatever world that I have just returned from, I want to hold to it like a souvenir.