you were the first one, so i sing this song for you
piercing was the only word for it. the way that the sky just after dusk, a deep resonant blue, seemed to blind him. the way that each street lamp seemed to be punching a hole in the roof of his car as he drove beneath their beams, one after another, in a rythym. he could feel the air blowing through the windows and the crackle of the radio moving through his body and he knew that this was flight, in its purest form. the leaves on the trees rustled and groaned and whispered, raising goosebumps on his arms, and he wanted this feeling to last and last as he feared it wouldn't.
~
he was chasing it down, that sudden hole in the sky; turn a corner, sharp, there it was! all around him the lights were deep, blue and slow, like candle wax, too hot to touch. and there! a break in the cloud cover led to a paler blue, a sky made of light and air, a blue that spoke of harsh breaths, cold and alive. he lifted his hands from the wheel to open himself to it, reached out the window to grasp for the purity he knew he could find if he just kept moving. the world around him lilted stay, his car like a small burning rocket chanted go, and that sudden hole in the sky smiled and whispered, come come come.
~
night had fallen like the tunnel to his grandmother's house when he was twelve. his vision was narrow and dark, and he was married to the idea of this road and that somewhere, yellow lines and the eventual cheap motel. he imagined dinging the bell for service, imagined how empty and quiet the parking lot would be as he unloaded all the bags he had brought into a small dank room with a color television and cable. he imagined the blue glow of that tv screen. it was all peace. he was anywhere but here; and yet he was nowhere but here, completely and honestly one with the experience of running, with the feel of the engine whirring, pistons firing, elecrical wires stretching until the ends of the earth. the world was the tunnel to his grandmother's house when he was twelve, a four hour drive condensed into twenty seconds of held breath. the myth is, you enter a tunnel, you hold your breath, you make a wish, you come out the other end, you release your held breath...somewhere along the line, the wish comes true.
~
he watched the sunrise from behind the wheel. a cup of free coffee from the continental breakfast in one hand, no lid, destined to spill. he often wondered about destiny, and frequently devised little tricks to test the theories he formed about it. he had multitudes of theories, many about fate, and many more about a varity of things. he had a theory about what her reaction would be, when she found him gone. it was this leaving that had really got him thinking hard about the idea of destiny, about whether his leaving was fate or coincidence or avoidable, somehow. whether he was destined to meet her, or if that was coincidence too. he considered including his thoughts about her and fate, he had many thoughts, in the letter he left behind. but she wouldn't have cared, and he wasn't sure he could bear her apathy on a subject which he found so vital. so he wrote nothing of fate in the letter, nothing of love either. he made his handwriting as medical and impersonal as possible. he made his signature as devoid of emotion as possible. and then he scribbled it out, just those last two words, and replaced them with everything he had ever wanted to say disguised as his first and last name. he had watched the sun rise aflame that morning, pulling out of her gravel driveway, the sun had come singing, scorching through the clouds and pretty as a picture book, and he had thought about whether he preferred sunrises or sunsets. she was a sunset, he thought now, decisively, and he smiled to himself, preferring this new sunrise, the winding snake of pavement bowing and outstretched before him.
~
he was chasing it down, that sudden hole in the sky; turn a corner, sharp, there it was! all around him the lights were deep, blue and slow, like candle wax, too hot to touch. and there! a break in the cloud cover led to a paler blue, a sky made of light and air, a blue that spoke of harsh breaths, cold and alive. he lifted his hands from the wheel to open himself to it, reached out the window to grasp for the purity he knew he could find if he just kept moving. the world around him lilted stay, his car like a small burning rocket chanted go, and that sudden hole in the sky smiled and whispered, come come come.
~
night had fallen like the tunnel to his grandmother's house when he was twelve. his vision was narrow and dark, and he was married to the idea of this road and that somewhere, yellow lines and the eventual cheap motel. he imagined dinging the bell for service, imagined how empty and quiet the parking lot would be as he unloaded all the bags he had brought into a small dank room with a color television and cable. he imagined the blue glow of that tv screen. it was all peace. he was anywhere but here; and yet he was nowhere but here, completely and honestly one with the experience of running, with the feel of the engine whirring, pistons firing, elecrical wires stretching until the ends of the earth. the world was the tunnel to his grandmother's house when he was twelve, a four hour drive condensed into twenty seconds of held breath. the myth is, you enter a tunnel, you hold your breath, you make a wish, you come out the other end, you release your held breath...somewhere along the line, the wish comes true.
~
he watched the sunrise from behind the wheel. a cup of free coffee from the continental breakfast in one hand, no lid, destined to spill. he often wondered about destiny, and frequently devised little tricks to test the theories he formed about it. he had multitudes of theories, many about fate, and many more about a varity of things. he had a theory about what her reaction would be, when she found him gone. it was this leaving that had really got him thinking hard about the idea of destiny, about whether his leaving was fate or coincidence or avoidable, somehow. whether he was destined to meet her, or if that was coincidence too. he considered including his thoughts about her and fate, he had many thoughts, in the letter he left behind. but she wouldn't have cared, and he wasn't sure he could bear her apathy on a subject which he found so vital. so he wrote nothing of fate in the letter, nothing of love either. he made his handwriting as medical and impersonal as possible. he made his signature as devoid of emotion as possible. and then he scribbled it out, just those last two words, and replaced them with everything he had ever wanted to say disguised as his first and last name. he had watched the sun rise aflame that morning, pulling out of her gravel driveway, the sun had come singing, scorching through the clouds and pretty as a picture book, and he had thought about whether he preferred sunrises or sunsets. she was a sunset, he thought now, decisively, and he smiled to himself, preferring this new sunrise, the winding snake of pavement bowing and outstretched before him.