90 kmph on a burning yellow night. You can hear your heartbeat within your helmet. The roar of the engine has faded into oblivion somewhere at the back of your mind. You hear it no more. Only the halogen lamps that tower like old wise men with lamps above the road ahead of you and the occassional whizz of the cars you speed past meet your mind.
You speed ahead of yourself. Your mind reaching for further limits than your machine. Stopping dosent even occur. The road ahead seems calling. Maybe a turn or two here and you shall be home. Turning, out of the question. You've missed that turn a few kilometres ago.
Blink. The yellow is gone. A darkness fills the road. Only the beam of your machine is what leads the road ahead. Crusing the highway. A few metres at a time. A cold rush now meets your skin. The moonlight soothes you in a way that makes you decelerate. But you don't feel the need for speed no more.
There are trees here. Like old men guarding what's left to be swallowed by the encroaching concrete jungles. The moonlight silhouttes them. They whisper onto the road. You crise on slowly trying to hear them speak maybe. You hear nothing but maybe that what feels like peace.
It's pitch dark. But for the few lonely lights that share the same road.
You are on the wrong way. You keep going on. Quite a few miles away from your destinatation. But this darkness feels like home.
Maybe i've known this feeling before. The crossing of boundaries between the wrong and the right. Like losing yourself is really finding yourself. Like what's wrong is truly right.
Like taking the wrong road... home.
You speed ahead of yourself. Your mind reaching for further limits than your machine. Stopping dosent even occur. The road ahead seems calling. Maybe a turn or two here and you shall be home. Turning, out of the question. You've missed that turn a few kilometres ago.
Blink. The yellow is gone. A darkness fills the road. Only the beam of your machine is what leads the road ahead. Crusing the highway. A few metres at a time. A cold rush now meets your skin. The moonlight soothes you in a way that makes you decelerate. But you don't feel the need for speed no more.
There are trees here. Like old men guarding what's left to be swallowed by the encroaching concrete jungles. The moonlight silhouttes them. They whisper onto the road. You crise on slowly trying to hear them speak maybe. You hear nothing but maybe that what feels like peace.
It's pitch dark. But for the few lonely lights that share the same road.
You are on the wrong way. You keep going on. Quite a few miles away from your destinatation. But this darkness feels like home.
Maybe i've known this feeling before. The crossing of boundaries between the wrong and the right. Like losing yourself is really finding yourself. Like what's wrong is truly right.
Like taking the wrong road... home.
_-_Eugen_Sandow_(1867-1925).jpg)
But this darkness feels like home.
ReplyDeleteand
Like taking the wrong road... home.
these lines really clicked well in your narration... I still need to plan my big road trip on the bike....