October Nights

The night road is stark. There is the distant smell of industry. Disfigured tungsten bulbs glow sporadically. Silhouettes of naked trees form against the imposing headlight. The starlit sky and the buoyant October moon gatecrash. The car finds itself in idyllic isolation. Divine theatre. 

I try to play my part too. Look out into black and white. Hope to create austere poetry. So, I go back in time. Such orchestra.

My mind entertains the idea of death, unrequited love, failure, melancholy and other things morose. Trying furiously to align with the ambiance.

But then, almost against the script, I begin to think of warmer times. Without order. Of a time when I had a giving spirit. When my friends could call me when in need and I would listen, not hear. Of a day when responsibility evoked excitement and not a lethargic affirmation. Then, when keeping in touch was a natural feeling for me, not an ordeal. Gentler times when care was part of my character.

You know how it is. Driving at one a.m. with the sound of wind rushing in. Like the many thoughts. And in the million that fire aimlessly, that one hopeless little guy which drifts closer to the heart.

And in a remarkable instance of irony, against the parched trees that meet my eye, it waters the soul.