Yesterday. Nine PM.
My car surges East down SR 316, that short stretch of undeveloped country between Atlanta and Athens. It is affectionately known as the highway of death, for its history of fatal car wrecks. Wooden crosses and flowers bear witness and line the shoulders. Behind me the sun has set, and the my rear view mirror is on fire with the glow of sunset, reds, golds, purples. I launch myself to the other side of the world.
The sky above me is a deep blue dome, the first stars just starting to appear. Before me is the rising full moon, sapphron orange, and as large as (insert your favorite simile here). Cutting laterally across the moon is a thin purple streak of a cloud. The skies around the moon are aglow with heat lightning.
My writing seems akward. Words can not describe it.
I live for the sublime.
My car surges East down SR 316, that short stretch of undeveloped country between Atlanta and Athens. It is affectionately known as the highway of death, for its history of fatal car wrecks. Wooden crosses and flowers bear witness and line the shoulders. Behind me the sun has set, and the my rear view mirror is on fire with the glow of sunset, reds, golds, purples. I launch myself to the other side of the world.
The sky above me is a deep blue dome, the first stars just starting to appear. Before me is the rising full moon, sapphron orange, and as large as (insert your favorite simile here). Cutting laterally across the moon is a thin purple streak of a cloud. The skies around the moon are aglow with heat lightning.
My writing seems akward. Words can not describe it.
I live for the sublime.
marieceleste:
No, that's not awkward. I see and feel it. Beautiful. Only travel can give you that feeling, travel under the broad blue night.