The sighing breath of relief escapes my lips, and I sit down. I lay down. I stretch out. I sink into the most comfortable place in the world. My blanket smells faintly like the combination of me and my regular perfume, even though I didn't wear it today; and my pillows have conformed to my head, neck, and shoulders. I am enveloped.
My mind keeps turning 'round and 'round these memories . . . the ones that are impossible to forget. Of the travel, of the excitement. The different times with different people, and the different sentiments at each juncture.
---- Of the sun, and salt, and palmettos. The thin coat of South on everything, making it that much more memorable. The lady working at Arby's giving me the most sincere "Have a nice day, darlin'!" that I've ever heard in my life. The quiet afternoons, desolate of anyone but the NCO; suspiciously walking past as I'd sit on the picnic table in the courtyard. The energizingly busy nights, turning into midnights, turning into early mornings. The open door visited by so many, beer in hand. "Hello's" and "seeya's" flowing as freely as the alcohol and cigarettes.
---- Of the snow and the cold; the white, white, whiteness that blanketed everything, and tried its hardest to cushion the world from our uproar. The beautiful drive in "Eleanor" (RIP) that slowly turned our worlds from a muddled brown and a deadened grey into the brilliant, bright, hilly magnificence of winter there. That blinding purity. The incredible silence. The feeling of hard-packed snow and ice meeting tailbone after a failed attempt at a graceful decent, and the feeling of snow and wind in your eyes when successful. The incredible solitude of midnight solo hikes in snow-covered mountain quiet resulting in so much joy, reguardless of the fact that I lost my headphones somewhere in Ironwood, Michigan.
---- Of spending hours in anticipation. Hours surrounded by newfound strangers turned newfound friends. Seeying the portrait of America via Greyhound bus stations. Taking blury pictures of incredible landmarks, and places I'd only heard about before; either in fond recollections or the history books. Listening to some of the best live performances next to someone who became a part of the music, turning my experience into something more than visceral. Running out of money, and sleeping in the car after we had to check out of the motel. The Port Authority bus station/subway station. Times Square. Feeling more alive and more a part of the world than I ever had. Ever.
And this is why I can't sleep. Sue me.
Better yet. . . . . don't.
My mind keeps turning 'round and 'round these memories . . . the ones that are impossible to forget. Of the travel, of the excitement. The different times with different people, and the different sentiments at each juncture.
---- Of the sun, and salt, and palmettos. The thin coat of South on everything, making it that much more memorable. The lady working at Arby's giving me the most sincere "Have a nice day, darlin'!" that I've ever heard in my life. The quiet afternoons, desolate of anyone but the NCO; suspiciously walking past as I'd sit on the picnic table in the courtyard. The energizingly busy nights, turning into midnights, turning into early mornings. The open door visited by so many, beer in hand. "Hello's" and "seeya's" flowing as freely as the alcohol and cigarettes.
---- Of the snow and the cold; the white, white, whiteness that blanketed everything, and tried its hardest to cushion the world from our uproar. The beautiful drive in "Eleanor" (RIP) that slowly turned our worlds from a muddled brown and a deadened grey into the brilliant, bright, hilly magnificence of winter there. That blinding purity. The incredible silence. The feeling of hard-packed snow and ice meeting tailbone after a failed attempt at a graceful decent, and the feeling of snow and wind in your eyes when successful. The incredible solitude of midnight solo hikes in snow-covered mountain quiet resulting in so much joy, reguardless of the fact that I lost my headphones somewhere in Ironwood, Michigan.
---- Of spending hours in anticipation. Hours surrounded by newfound strangers turned newfound friends. Seeying the portrait of America via Greyhound bus stations. Taking blury pictures of incredible landmarks, and places I'd only heard about before; either in fond recollections or the history books. Listening to some of the best live performances next to someone who became a part of the music, turning my experience into something more than visceral. Running out of money, and sleeping in the car after we had to check out of the motel. The Port Authority bus station/subway station. Times Square. Feeling more alive and more a part of the world than I ever had. Ever.
And this is why I can't sleep. Sue me.
Better yet. . . . . don't.
VIEW 25 of 29 COMMENTS
alphagoon:
that is entirely up to you. I'm done making decisions today. 
all_sewn_up:
That is an amazing plan - good on you for having the drive and the balls to do what people only dream or talk about. I look forward to reading all your adventures (especially the one where you raise a shot glass in my honor at the Jameson distillery.) 