The roads are wet from a day of soaking rain, darker than usual and split in half by the blinding yellow of the stripes. The trees are tangled, a canopy of barren limbs and twisted vines. I stare at them as I drive aimlessly on, caught up in the mess of it all. No color seeps from the sky. Everything I see is a gloomy shade of gray and it soothes me. There's no glaring sun to squint at and it seems as if it could be any hour of the day in these moments.
This feels like me. This feels like my road.
Far off, headlights appear. Light is now on the scene and it feels like a rude interruption. I was quite liking the haze, the mist, the mess. I felt right at home in the twisted branches and colorless sky. It seemed right today. I wasn't wallowing in it, I was welcoming it.
When the color is gone, the sky seems like a blank canvas waiting to be painted. When the leaves have fallen, the trees seem like mannequins waiting to be dressed. When the roads are empty, it seems like the journey is mine for the taking.
I quite like the possibilities of that.