Inside out

It's one of those nights where you've pushed the limits.


Your eyes burn and your eyelids feel like they're trying to hold up 10 pound weights.

But you stay awake.

You are in control. You won't succumb to sleep.


The clock is merciless. Ticking. Ticking.

Each second of your life, being slowly counted down.

Why do you wait?


For solidarity.

For silence.

And you go there.. in your mind. To the place where it all makes sense.

To the place where the shadow of eagles soar through the canyons. Where the river has thawed but the peaks are still snowy.

Where the old truck sits. Rusting.

It has a story, but no one knows it anymore because no one cares anymore.
And it makes its own statement now.

There is a certain beauty to it. This piece of metal and rust and cracked blue paint. It holds personality that won't die. A forgotten trophy of an era long gone.

Once, it was someone's treasure, their show piece.

And still, the clock ticks on.

On and on and on into the future.

Reminisce. Because right now.. is already... the past.



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Edited 3/6/10

After seeing this post, a good friend of mine was inspired to write about it. So I'm putting it here, because it's too cool not to share-


i like your post. i like how you came back to the "ticking, ticking" bit a few times during the post. it gave it a certain feeling. and when your imagination took over and you went for a walk, mine did too and i came along. when we came to the truck, i ran my hands along its cold metal flanks. flecks of blue paint gave way to my hand and fell off like scabs. as we walked around it, i glanced in the window at the decaying upholstery. too bad. you could almost see a proud man driving his wife into town for the first time in the new thing, a patient woman in a summer dress listening to him rattle off all the reasons why THIS truck is special, why THIS one is better than all the others that were on the lot. in the bed was an assorted collection of dead leaves, a few scraps of rotting fabric, and a small block of wood all brewing away together in a murky soup. the leftovers of winters wrath, a rusty cauldron made possible by the melting snow. i wondered how many times the bed was full of laughing children as the truck bumped down some dirt road, beaming with pride like a father with his own on his back. "test my strength" it would invite. as we walked around to the front, its blind headlights stared vacantly back at us like two dim old cataracted eyes. there was a feeling in the air that if we were to linger long enough, the truck might open its mouth and begin to tell us stories of its youth, of struggles and victories (old men do tend to follow strikingly predictable patterns). these are good stories though, and it seems as though there are no more good stories happening anymore. so we listen. perhaps he was a veteran, and fought for freedom on some foreign shore. perhaps he knew the hardship of poverty, and he certainly was acquainted with hard work. as we stand there looking at it, you can almost see the years fall away, and as the rusty old gent disintegrates into a cloud of dust, bits of metal rain to the ground with a sound like tinkling temple bells. the shape of a gallant young man appears but as he does the dogs come running up, barking excitedly about some new smell or perhaps out of sheer joy and abandon at the beautiful day and the gift of being alive. when we look back, it is just an old truck again.

walking back to the house we're both silent. it's time for dinner anyway.