Like the searchlights...

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I sit in silence as I type, as I often do.

Most people are inspired by music, and I am as well, but for a moment of clarity, for the precision that I attempt to have, I have to hear the blood rush through my veins.

My heart beat.

The hollow, plastic echoes of the keys.

My mind strays to rearview mirrors, and the irony of the situation.

I speed along 75, passengers in tow, working through my second pack of the day.

I see the headlights behind me.

We often look to our pasts, travelling back down that road through which we've already spilt oil, rubber, trash. We've littered it, felt its bumps and flat spots, hugged the curves that are quickly receding into the dark horizon.

But there are always those bright spots, constantly shining, reminding us that there are still people and ideas back there. Some shine too bright, make us cringe, but often we don't dare slow down. That's just not safe.

It's so much easier travelling old country roads where there are no headlights behind you, and all you can see is the short distance in front of you. You just spend your time trying to get through the next 100 feet. There's a silhouette in the past, but it's darker than dark, and fleeting. The reminders rarely stick.

But closer to civilization, there are always lights. Streetlights shining down as far back as the eye can see, illuminating memories and people. There are always spotlights sweeping across piss stained bricks and graffiti marked walls. You can always see the bums shuffling along the edge of your vision. It's a constant reminder. You're not allowed to forget here.

You always see it.

You always see it again.

You always see it again and again and again...

This block is the same as the next.

But here I am on 75, bright points behind, and maybe a few in the head. But that could be a bum instead of a friend. You never really know what's coming up, but you always know what's left behind.

So I see these points, and the road stretching out behind me, well traveled. And I catch a glimpse of a face.

Half shrouded, half illuminated, wavering between the two. A look of consternation blatantly rolled all over the eyes, cheeks, lips, chin and all. It's smiling to keep up the facade when she notices the eyes wandering around looking for answers, but looking out of the window at the landscape as it rushes by, you really see what's deep inside there.

I know this look. I feel my own face mimic it, if only for a second.

I begin to wonder if I like the streetlights or not.

The light shines. The umbra seeps. It's all touch and go.

But I digress.

You never know what bright points are going to be behind you, and when they're going to turn off, and leave you back on the country roads.

Where it's nice and dark. Where you don't have the needling pain in the back of your eyes. But no matter how dark it gets, and no matter how black the silhouettes, when it's finally clear, you don't even need your lights to see the world around you, or the road, and people behind you.

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I finish my second pack for the day, and toss it in the back seat.

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I wake up, and desperately fish through my floorboards, throwing out the impostor cardboard boxes, and flip the lid to my prize. My heart sinks and I stagger back inside.

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Orange. I like Orange. Orange is comfortable. Orange has purpose.