On the road.
Watching the scenery go by, flashes of reds, yellows, greens;
rain streaking the windows, forming an impressionist landscape.
Traveling.
By myself, once again.
Silence, but not the longed-for mutual stillness;
cold, depressing, self-pitying silence.
Alone.
Left alone to think.
Plenty of memories and dreams crowd my thoughts;
failures, retreats, and yet optimism begs an audience.
Pensive.
It makes me unhappy.
Thoughts of worldly possessions, relationships, aspirations built up
only to be washed away like the colors of the landscape.
Discontent.
Why must my dreams die?
Why can’t mine be granted to me like the world receives theirs?
Lord, I only need . . . The thought dies as the realization settles.
You.
