Aurora 2021 Mag

Braden Kelsey

The Sun Don’t Care

The grass was struggling towards gold and the sky was dry, distant, and cooking the crowd. It was hot, 103 degrees fahrenheit (approximately 40 degrees celsius), and the sun was on our necks. Band after band took to the stage, dripping sweat and spewing spit—leather pants wilting actively against their skin. But the music—you had nothin’ in you from the sun, it took everything—but the music scraped at the scraps. I found myself shouting to the stage as if instinctually, as if being exorcised. I recoiled at guitar solos like you would from a punch, whirling around cartoonishly to see if anyone was feeling the same. Christian told me to look back at the fingers of Black Puma’s lead guitarist. His left hand was crawling across the fretboard like a startled spider, spinning shade between the sun and us. It scuttled cautiously on the warping brass strings, and the sounds were sweet, traveling through the air as if swimming through oil. “It must be scorching up there,” I said, turning to Christian’s older brother Shane. “Yeah, but they don’t seem to care,” he said, before gesturing up to the sun. “He sure don’t.” * The days were often not dark, though they lacked any color. Many times my mind slid across the spectrum of possibilities, never ascending beyond “Now what?”—that wall that flipped outwards into the void, spiraled away with nothing on the other side but more of the same. I was suspicious when I saw catered smiles. How was it that anyone would want to play this game? The one with no mission—no compass or objectives beyond attractive vague phrases and expedited thrills to

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