It's that time fo night. It's dark, and all you can see, all you can hear, are lights, and the quiet whirl, fading easily into the background.
It's my favorite time, a road trip, in the middle of the night.
You lean aginst your door, and rest your cheek against the window. It's cold at first, but in a good way, and over time you don't even notice.
All you can see is outside. You're not in a car, and you're not with anyone else. You're just you. And tonight, you can fly.
Your eyes become unfocused, as you take in light, after light, afer light, after light.
White, they're the souls, traveling backwards. To you, anyway. You imagine them branching out off the highway, from an overhead veiw. They get out of their vehicles, and make their way into their homes. They all travel the same road, but live in their own world, closed off.
Red, and you can imagine you're following fireflies into the darkness, not caring where youre going, and even though the driver, less then an arms lenght away knows, you won't ask them.
The silnce is heavy, and just to move your lips, it would stir up trouble, interrupting the thick silence.
The only sound is the wheels, rolling on and on in the blackness.
And although these words paint a picture, I can't describe the feeling. The feeling that, while you're there, you're not. And while you can see, you can't.You're blind, but tonight, the blackness isn't dark.
It's my favorite time, and when I dream of it, I never want to wake up.