Thursday, July 15, 2004

We drove during the witching hour yesterday, the two of us, and when we reached a stoplight she broke the silence.

“It’s tough, isn’t it?” Muse said with her prescient charm.

I looked at the flashing pedestrian signal and contemplated the blinking person, always in motion yet never moving anywhere.

“Yes it is,” I replied after a while.  “You finally learn a place, but then you want to go.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she sighed.

“Oh?”

She peered out the windshield at a moon dyed crimson, a stubborn red answer to all the stars clothed in normalcy.

“I may be wrong,” she continued, “but you grow your roots somewhere, grow them deep down, and then there comes a time when you’re restless and your roots lose hold.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.  So what should I do?” I wondered aloud to a pensive Muse.

She didn’t answer, so I looked at the stoplight with a rising sense of impatience, my thumbs futilely tap-tap-tapping the steering wheel in no particular rhythm.

“Will this light ever change?”

“I don’t know.”