Waiting for a Green Light
It's like someone dropped a jar of red glitter. The sparkling tail lights of lines of cars shimmer off the still-wet pavement. And I close my eyes for a moment while I wait, and then I have to mentally convince myself to open them again.
My music is the same and my day will be the same and my daydreams are the same. I've determined that I've run out of daydreams; things...people...events...to look forward to. The desires that fuel my stories have dissolved. And it elicits a sense of frustration; like when you've mixed a special color and have painted an area and have just one little bit left to paint but you're out. And you wonder if you can ever re-create that color.
My car has a sheen of morning dew on it, and beneath the sticky wet there is a layer of greenish yellow pollen. This is what I focus on at the next red light. I look over at my passenger seat. I mentally chastise myself for spilling coffee in the car earlier in the week and wonder when I'll be able to stop for gas next.
And between the mundane everyday thoughts that occur between red lights and traffic jams my mind reaches out for something. Something I could turn into a story or a drawing...or maybe just a daydream. But I'm just listening to the same songs crawl out of my car speakers and thinking the same, stale, inapplicable daydreams of the past.
I want coffee and green lights and daydreams. I want to get to work, but more than that, I want something to look forward to in going home. Motivation is where it's at - and it stalls in the languid morning hours, it sticks to the ground with the fog, it sits in the street waiting on red lights, it loops over and over in a tired playlist, it drains while you sit idling; just waiting for something good to happen, just waiting for a green light.
My music is the same and my day will be the same and my daydreams are the same. I've determined that I've run out of daydreams; things...people...events...to look forward to. The desires that fuel my stories have dissolved. And it elicits a sense of frustration; like when you've mixed a special color and have painted an area and have just one little bit left to paint but you're out. And you wonder if you can ever re-create that color.
My car has a sheen of morning dew on it, and beneath the sticky wet there is a layer of greenish yellow pollen. This is what I focus on at the next red light. I look over at my passenger seat. I mentally chastise myself for spilling coffee in the car earlier in the week and wonder when I'll be able to stop for gas next.
And between the mundane everyday thoughts that occur between red lights and traffic jams my mind reaches out for something. Something I could turn into a story or a drawing...or maybe just a daydream. But I'm just listening to the same songs crawl out of my car speakers and thinking the same, stale, inapplicable daydreams of the past.
I want coffee and green lights and daydreams. I want to get to work, but more than that, I want something to look forward to in going home. Motivation is where it's at - and it stalls in the languid morning hours, it sticks to the ground with the fog, it sits in the street waiting on red lights, it loops over and over in a tired playlist, it drains while you sit idling; just waiting for something good to happen, just waiting for a green light.
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