The ride of a lifetime

Streaks of toil blanket the road, while others slow to observe the hardship display occurring. The young boy, dressed in tempestuous stripes, and chronic pain. He surfs his mind for a silver lining but it seems everything has collapsed. —–
The wind threw itself past the eardrums of a father and son. The current stinging the boy with angst, and fear of letting go of his father’s pillar of strength. Equanimity soothed softly into his vision once his father turned back and gave his son a comforting grin. Languid clouds followed the adventurous spirits through the mountain slopes, along the rocky ground, and back upon the interstate. The engine fastidious in its appeal, growling and pulling every ounce of strength and energy it could possibly muster up. It was an old Harley. One that has been passed down for generations. The boy reminisces of the past, trenchant memories all disentangled at first but coagulating around his focus like a spotlight of the mind. They were memories of seeing his late grandpa passing the family treasure down to his son. Seeing his grandpa rev the engine, throwing his grown son onto the seat cushion while hopping off. They took a moment to stare at the majesty of the moment. The elegantly trimmed wheels, plain pristine pearly sides, reflective gauges. A memory of himself learning how to ride a bicycle, for the first time, hearing his father lionize his success, and show gracious comfort. His father pointing towards his baby, and uttering the phrase that sent a spark of galvanization through his frame; “You’re almost ready to take a spin on the old treasure, buddy.”   

When reality hit him, he was still on the interstate, the white lines blinking at him, and the mountains furnishing his mind with an aura of escapism. The glaring eye in the sky, opens up to its blue room, with almost a jejune, puerile expression. The boy played around with the thought that it was voicing its secrets like a childhood friend. Along the side of the road, little hubs of crowded people, enjoying a homecooked meal, championing their choice of overeating with the enjoyment of social event. Soft, hearty reds, yellows, and gregarious whites lather around the community like a social paintshop. It cultivated within him, this paradox; that some mundane quality of life must eventually settle in a boy’s life. It concerned him. Like a gradually boiling flame simmering a stone, eventually the stone will conform to the temperature, and surround its once free, individual entity with the natural inevitability. Yet it was peculiar also to the boy, that like the stone, we must put up a facade to mask the inner voice within. That we must act robotic, because society desires us to do so. 

    For the time being though, he could continue living under the languid roof, his father built. At some points in his life, he feels his father is too generous. But his father, ostensibly has been through a lot, but the boy could never peel that onion rather his father always attempted to fulfill his son’s burning query with his own axiom; “a boiled egg, is better than one that is left out to dry on its own.” The boy never quite figured out what that meant. Mind you, he isn’t the world’s greatest detective, but he always attempted to be, costuming his childish arrogance with a youthful adventurous prowl. He was an impressionable young boy, always motivated by the stories he hears, reads and observes. He thought of life as a mystery, in which he must use his “impeccable deduction skills,” to put together the elaborate puzzle. But he is soon to find out that life is frankly, not “elementary.” Rather life is spontaneous, elaborate yes, but can be gumptious in its evil and gratitude. It can be manipulative, justifiable, sarcastic, and friendly. It’s a melting pot of voice that lathers its eyes upon each individual like a kindled light. We must observe the light, and observe the ambiguous voice to understand even the most fundamental layers of life. 

——

His head lays back on the unforgiving concrete. Sirens glare in the young boys ears, almost gloating, mocking his situation like a sadistic clown. The air now seems stained with facetious, sordid appeal, and the life he once knew, the comfortability, the pleasure in talking to the man who would give him his all, seems all lost. The father’s eyes, sinking within his face, now draw for his son’s presence, bubbling with dread, and monstrous solitude. “He’s slipping.” One of the men in uniform diagnosed, as many others in uniform crowded the frantic scene like crows, flocking from their sirens. 

    Trails of tears roll down the boy’s cheek, while he observes the only man in his life stroll off into the obnoxious vehicles that dress the air with alarming sirens. It seems no one paid attention to the boy, like everyone besides his father had done in his life. He was accustomed to alienation, but this kind of event felt remarkably obscure. This time he accounted, as he saw the vehicles door close on his father, his head resting on sinking reserves of life, he could not go to his father for support. This time he would have to innovate his own advice, scramble sometime of intuition up from dust, lifting his own head up, and ruffling his own hair, he begins to walk the other way. Down the white strips that line the never ending road that slopes the rising mountain, and that patterns its way back down to where his father is slowly drifting from him.