Friday, November 13, 2015
Why do I feel that something inside needs to be put on paper? That maybe a meager thought or string of feelings will somehow be perceived warmly and take root in another's heart or mind?
I'm driving. I'm always driving. Usually it's night and Fall seems to set the tone in the air. I coast along the street in dim lit roads of a small northern town. As I pass the small houses and old, weathered buildings, I turn on the music which furthers the feeling inside. It consumes me. It completely and utterly drowns out the real world and I become one with the different world inside me. Here in my world I am the hero. But I am pathetic. I feel the need to inspire but feel infant in my approach. Arrogance fills me as I somehow convince myself that something I have, someone needs to read or hear or relate. It doesn't feel like arrogance though. It just creeps along on the inside eating away until I force myself to make the time to relax and type or write. Then my mind drifts away.
The tree's tattered leaves are moving in the orange light of the lamp posts. I can see dried leaves be brushed across the road in small swift bursts. I know the air is crisp outside and the sun has been hidden and gone for sometime now. I roll along the paved roads and run my hands through my hair. I'm caught up in the music now and feel entirely encompassed in thought. It's the lone wolf inside that whispers "that this is life. That this is what it has and always will be. Just me myself and I."
The truck's dashboards lights are a little too bright and I turn them down. I crack open my window and breath in the autumn air. It's darker now because I've passed the main part of town and am driving further out into the darkened state. It's only a matter of time until the mood is changed by the next random song. But no. Fate decides to keep the mood with the same morose acoustic melodies and I continue in the feelings of the night. Time seems to vanish and its just me. It's always just me.
No one has ever been there with me. This path is lonely. During these times of self reflection, I ponder of things of old and stress of things that most likely will never happen. I talk aloud in the cab of the pickup as if someone's listening. Not to God or myself but just as is someone was there to listen. I then quickly laugh out loud, knowing damn well how crazy I am. I place myself in made up situations and play them out in my head. I wonder if anyone is doing what I am doing. I place my thoughts upon my friends, family and different love interests and dig deeper Into my dark lonesome world.
"Am I insane to think of that?" I ask myself as I think of different women. "Do they drive alone at night and think of me?" Probably not. They probably only think of me when they raise their phone and see my texts. Alone. Why am I alone?
My life has been filled with all sorts of heartache and I can sit back and appreciate the growth. But yes, the deep wounds still abide in my heart. They abide in my being. It's ok though, for what other human being could bare what I have born? I'm proud of myself and feel somewhat accomplished and distinguished for what I have endured.
After the decompression and letting my mind wander and panic for a season, it typically returns to a fluid thought. It thinks of her. I think of the perfect woman. Obviously this is a made up belle. I think of the woman who will sing to me and give me that look that lets me know she needs me. She wants to know my plans. She knows it's better when we're together. Shes my most beautiful plague. She was my best date ever. She's beautiful and I show her off as a trophy. She understands my wit and appreciates my mind. She's enthralled with my writing and poetry and builds me up. She's a woman of many talents who I'm so incredibly proud and in love with.
Yes, my mind turns to this and I tell myself to "drive on" because one day, I won't be driving alone. We will be flying. Come fly with me. Will you fly with me?