Freeways & Late Nights

it’s been a month of wild happenings and gray skies and too many hours of staring at the same white screen.

it’s been a month of morning workouts and nighttime rituals of tea and books and curling up in a blanket next to a not-fire (because there is no fireplace, hence the not-fire).

it’s been a year.  well, it’s a new year.

I long for summer, though winter is not even half over.  I long for the sweet scent of freshly cut grass, and warm sun beating down on the lilac bushes.  I long for swift runs in the dry earth, the world around me a quick, green and brown blur.  I long to sit outside by myself for hours on end, with nothing else than the sound of the wind singing, and the silent bugs tiptoeing and the bending trees and flowers and foliage softly calling my name.

I haven’t written much lately, but now as I write I realize how much writing makes me stop.  Stop the hurried, tyrannical race of busyness and chaos.  Stop thinking so much about finances, and rent, and taxes and cars and oil changes and boyfriends and what-to-do-with-the-bag-of-oranges-rotting-on-my-counter.  I think writing is a kind of therapy for me.  It makes me speak with I ordinarily cannot voice.  It asks that I face what I fear, or acknowledge what I hold back; or sing what I cannot say.

Last night, as I drove along the cold, dark road and watched the yellow-ish glow of the cars rising and rushing towards me, and felt the heat at my feet and the wind through my cracked window, I listened to the words: