Thinking on the move - The escape

I often wonder how it will be to feel the wind in my hair on a deserted road outside a remote city in an obscure country. A textured road sheathed in black, a streak of broken yellow down the middle, stretching from my feet to the green mountain in the distance. There is no sun here, not today, not now - take him out of the picture. Make it cloudy. Perfect. No shadows, no sun. Just clouds, the wind, the mountains and I. Maybe a motorcycle. A backpack, worn and dusty, the adventures and miles etched on its tough fabric. And on mine. The smile is not a strained one. Its without the weight of obligations - world imposed or self imposed. Stop when it pleases me to and move on when I feel I want to, all the while absorbing and observing. Here, time does not play taskmaster. It is only a sheet to script landscapes in, to pen down a city on and paint them with the hues of experiences and interactions. A song relayed by my headphones or by the scratchy radio on a rickety bus. Strains of melody that will years later bring back the smell, sights and sounds of a moment. All mine and yet made up of disparate elements brought to harmony by my senses in this puzzling world.

To take off without a care, to throw caution to the soothing wind, and to surf along and sway, and to be surfeited, surrounded and drown in glorious solitude, to be one with a stranger and to feel everything; even the emptiness at the core of my being. Feel it and know its there, so I know I have a role to play, a job to complete, a cavity to fill up with the experiences of my existence.

So who's stopping me from doing all this? Them and me. Mostly me.