Solitary Life

Solitude vivifies; isolation kills.
Joseph Roux

I yearn for the road less traveled and a comfortable ride; the clink of a tequila bottle on a wine glass; the laughter of a good friend; the view of an open field of wildflowers on an April morning; the salty intermingling of tears and spindrift while looking out to the ocean's horizon; the palpable quiet of a snowfall in a Midwestern wood; the crackling of a fireplace; the scent of coffee and a woman's hair first thing in the morning; the intimate tranquility of two people quietly walking down a peaceful country road, hand in hand.

Living alone is not necessarily a function of a solitary life. Being comfortable within oneself is outright necessary.

The road beckons for my embrace. Near infinite miles and combination of paths echo their siren song to my soul. There await friends and experiences and places and family and solitude beyond my meager estimation. Beyond the mountainous prison gates of this place.

Left or right, high or low shall be my choosing. Concrete or asphalt, gravel or dirt; these shall be my choices for I am the pilot of this two wheeled machine and of my life.

Endless fields of flowers before me. Sweet pea and daisy and sunflower and columbine and lily perfume my universe and indelibly place their gentile marks on my soul. Fragrant memories dance on the periphery of my consciousness as I follow my path.

Indefinite ways and intersections lace my future into a patchwork quilt, finally converging into a single point over the horizon in a direction I know not. I shall know it only once I arrive.