Connections of Prose

This road connects us from them, one generation to the next. Many have worn down this path before; we're not the first to break down this door. The knocks are repetitious and forever conscious as thoughts stream out the open window into the trailing air that gets sucked under the motion that separates us. Think of a time when you're leaving someone behind and all you can do is remember the many moments where a smile was brought to your face. Lines around the very mouth that has whispered and spoken continuous promises and goodbyes are embedded as the seconds fly by. And you drive away.

A dancer twirls with music painting its picture, acting as her partner across the stage. She gracefully moves as if the clouds above are now her prancing grounds with hardly a sound being made from her beneath her feet. Instead, the visions and symphonies become one in front of your eyes, and you breathe it in as you recognize real passion. In a world where simplistic pleasures are taken for granted and luxuries are out of reach, this dance is what makes us alive. Breathe the music as your air and walk as if your joints could speak since there are many stories to tell... and words can fall short. I may be alone on this worn stage of worries and pains, but this will always exist -- beyond the roads, the travels, the greetings and goodbyes.