Pestilent Purple Pulse

A blur of movement. Lights flash. The night has begun. They laugh, enjoying the glaring fluorescent glow of their white clothing in an otherwise dimly lit room. Purple. Their teeth and eyes stand apart. A dizzying contrast, with a side of alcohol, and a splash of pulsing noise. Glances froth with seduction accompany wandering hands as unfamiliar bodies brush against each other, moving to the pulse. Some feel the same beat, some different, some shake like willows in a thunderstorm. Wildly.

The noise is barely contained within four walls. Outside, passersby catch the pulsing purple as they drive, with interests piqued, if only for a fleeting moment. Remaining victims to tight schedules, they are too busy heading nowhere fast to stop and quench their curiosity. Some might roll down the window in order to catch the muffled rhythm, but instead instantly recoil when met by a blast of bitter cold, quickly securing themselves back into the stifled sanctity of their moving metal box.

Miles away her interests are piqued by a pulse as well, though not purple debauchery. It doesn't make her shake or seek contact from sweating seductive strangers. The air is still and silent, save the occasional squawking goose. Even the territorial cries of the angry birds are soothing to her. The mute breeze has a bite. It nibbles her nose and earlobes, pinches her cheeks. She takes a slow breath, and the sweet scent of raw earth courses through her body, straight to her soul, filling it with peace. The pulse is alive within her, and she smiles knowingly.

A reflection of the moon lays lazily on the lake's still surface smiling at her, calling to her inner tranquility. She takes in the brilliant stars, impressed by their ability to evoke awe as they confidently sparkle even in the presence of the tremendous luminescent orb. They are not lesser for their size. Complementing the night, casting shimmering flecks of personality on the placid, liquid face, the gaseous masses boldly command attention both directly and in reflection.

She remains that way: mere inches from the water's edge, seated on the soft, cool ground, resting her back against a young sapling, infrequently sipping on a thermos of hot hazelnut coffee for several hours. The pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude resonates, and she feels...complete. With a contented sigh, she pulls herself to her feet, briefly stretching achy hamstrings before casually following the light of the moon back to her own moving metal box. With a final glance at the two identical moons, she smiles and begins her short drive back to her other home.

Turning the corner onto Main Street, the purple pulse catches her attention through the steamy windows of an older style white building. There are several young people standing around on the street, swaying without confidence in equilibrium, stumbling as they attempt to walk. She slows, and finds herself staring into the vacant, blood shot, half closed eyes of a young man, over the drooping head of his female companion. In an attempt to be coy, he juts his chin up slightly, purses his lips, and smirks.

She sees in that moment, his soul is lacking the pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude. She senses instantly how desperately he must cling to the purple pulse, because it is obvious that between beats, his life is shockingly devoid of purpose and meaning. At once, she wishes to cure the plague, grab him by the hand and lead him to a place where silence reigns, forcing one to listen to a dissatisfied soul.

Bored with her blank expression and apparent refusal to play the game of flirtation, he turns away, gruffly ushering his stumbling lady friend up the stairs and back through the glass doors, back to the pestilent purple pulse, soon to forget the already almost nonexistent exchange.