The road laid out before me, peels off the miles as the hum of tires on pavement sing a song only I can hear. It’s a haunting melody, one I’ve heard before, once upon a time. It comes to me in snippets, in dribbles and drabs, a catchy tune that I can’t quite place, but is an earworm just the same. If I don’t get to it before it vanishes…
Landscapes eeke out, familiar from years of travel. The river beside me as I ride, twists and turns that much different from the first days when these canyons were first cut. The reflection I afford myself, however briefly, shimmers just beyond reach much more so than the abyss I often find myself looking upon.
It’s that darkness from which they’ve spawned, some sort of literary big bang that shuffled everything into existence. As timelines implode upon themselves, I see things as they were/are/have yet to be. Storylines dawn here, and that music starts again, another tune which I’ll have to stow away for later.
Sun careens over the mountaintop and constellations burst behind my eyes, seafaring beneath the stars as ideas come quickly now as the distance I’ve yet to go as sails unfurl with me, though there’s no wind. I’m mapping my own world that at times seems not altogether there. At times, I’m not sure I’m there either--am I a ghost sailing through these worlds--or something entirely different?
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