Nine O’Clock/Seven O’Clock

I am overwhelmed traveling across North America. Trees dotting miles of country side, trees clumped in never ending bunches cascading down to form a mountain slide. Eighty-Five miles an hour allows these images to glide past; I never can quite recall the last thing I saw.

They, my company in the front bob and nod to music I have the privilege to isolate myself from. With headphones wrapped around my hair, looped down to my borrowed ipod I allow myself to feel like an outsider looking in on the interaction of these two men. Over the past nineteen hours we’ve shared words regarding tattoos, instruments, obstacles we’ve overcome, and conclusions concerning the scenery usually ending in, “cool” “awesome” and “look at that one.”

These mountains are gorgeous, yet treacherous.

The closest I come to knowing mountains like these every day are the ones I have to mentally trek through and overcome. Perhaps the mountains of my life are equally breathtaking as they are difficult.

“Walla Walla Onions and Cherries Exit 16” A simple spray painted sign tacked to one of the millions of trees I’ve seen invites us to experience the flavors of local delights. I’m ready to taste a Washington cherry and allow it to carry me far from home. I’m ready to feel Washington rain drizzle under my collar and roam down my back bone. I’m ready to breathe Washington air peppered with scents of ocean mist and lavender fields in which the bustling bees are thrilled to roam.

Sweeping past homes nestled in the mountain side, I wonder how these people happened upon here. It is nothing like and nowhere near the home I find so dear. Does this mean they are so very different from me? They, in their adorned trailer parks, me and my neon lights buzzing like mosquitoes after dark.

I am overwhelemed thinking about how many people there are to know and love.

People I automatically feel I float above. Not because I am better. Only because I cannot fathom that they have thoughts, feelings, and intricate lives similar to my own. They are like mobile statues who I might say a few words to, but freeze and remain unknown after I have left their sight. Hesitant yet haunted at the thought that they imagine me in a parallel light.

Driving towards the sun, nature behind, illuminated by the dull glow as it slowly dips into the well of mountains. Energy in my bones, captivated by stillness, by this seat, in this car, pounding through every muscle. It is ready to stretch and leap out while I try to assure it we are moving faster than my body alone ever could.

In these mountains I leave traces of my presence through written words and glances inhaled deeply as our car continues to steer. Away.

Published by Anna Buck

"everything was beautiful and nothing hurt."

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