Back Talking to Myself

Driving to and from a baby shower for a person I know little of gives me lots of time to enjoy the drive without overtly analyzing the former interactions and endless pastel colored packages filled with devices to clean up spit, poop, and the constant spit-up from someone that has not stepped or breathed its first breath into a murkily cheerful world. As the tires jitter over each break within the road, the sun lies down to upwardly cast its last light onto blackened forests and red velvet skies. The lights generate an overshadow reminding me of those shoe box displays that I loathed after reading another somber story of bunnies lost in a thatch or a boy losing his first molar and finding out that the toothfairy is less attractive than he once hoped. The trees do not move like transfixed memories pasted in my mind. My body relaxes into my stiff new car seat and I let some new music from a land far, far away take me back to a place that never left me but dumped itself into packed memories somewhere in third and fourth grade.
On nights like this, life seems like something to dream into a hushed existence. I do not want to force my dabbled thoughts toward reality. Instead, I want to let them melt on my mind in bright yellows and greens and then fade into something like a sunset. Something that happens each night as the world tucks itself to rest without needing reality to happen in constant motion. Dreaming with lots of time to pause but enough consideration to think toward taking a new step into a far away land or finding a way to make well with a flightful moment of serenity as each bump beneath the tire rolls away with my music lets me fall back like a girl crunching through my first pile of leaves without any worry of the trashman coming by to take them away before the winter sun turns behind the trees for a long rest.