The rhythmic sound of cars driving down the road, the subtle breeze shaking the trees.

Leaves dance in the light wind, crashing against the car and falling, ultimately, to the ground.

There’s not much sound at all – a sudden honk as soon as I could fall asleep.
More wheels against pavement, life’s many directions, destinations, home after a long day.

Fatigue, hunger – I feel it too. Maybe not the same as you.

Quiet birds chirp, feeling chipper. Happy for spring, happy to be alive.

A blue sky with fluffy white clouds. Not sunny, not dreary. One of those in-between days.

Not quite chilly, but too cold to go without a sweater.

Gentle winds. Enough for things not to be still.

I’m still. You have to be to observe life. When you’re in it, you’re focused on being in it.

When you’re an outsider, you focus on being on the outside. Is it really all that it’s cracked up to be?

A cat hunched over on a stoop. It leaves to explore, not in view anymore.

A school bus just went down the road.

I saw an airplane before writing this. It made me think about what it’s like up there.

Everything is treated the same as down on the ground; that’s the strange part. Snacks, movies, music, games, napping? Up in the sky?

White birds playing in a green bush.

Pink flowers that I remember – bright, beautiful – no, the cold weather froze them. They’ll be back.


Photo from Pixabay.com, by pixel2013


Author: tiredmindtypingfingers

Writing about writing and chronic illness, and trying to make something out of it.

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