Crows Fly Black

 

 

I carry only necessities, the small pack to my side enabling me to easily withstand thirty days in this foreign land. I do not wish to burden myself with pleasantries, nor too many comforts. The nomadic lifestyle is often devoid of both, the lack of material possessions replaced with journey and adventure; evenings staring into ancient ruins, the wild sea and the fiery globe melting the horizon; the meeting of perfect strangers, departing as friends; a new sun blazing down upon sweating skin during vigorous training upon historic sands; the dusk settling through the slotted shades of spartan rooms, bare, letting me focus on thought and reason as to why I am here, and who I wish to become. The minimalism offers no distraction, forcing me to uncomfortable places with my mind, mastering the art of loneliness.

…But above all, it offers freedom.

 

****

 

I am no longer human. I am a crow flying black against the tarmac, royal sky and patches of cloud. My vessel is a stripped down roll cage made of steel, yet would surely be obliterated upon impact. There are no windows or doors—only a full tank and my quick-twitch muscle fibers, honed and tested, choking the wheel like death itself. I soar through rolling pastures and walls of rotting stone. Beyond, turquoise oceans crash into jagged cliffs, their salty spray misting upward, gifting me with rural air. The waves meet their maker, yet more remain, the power of nature a metaphor of how I wish to live until the end of days.

I race alone, my bare skin soaking in the power of the yellow sun, my ears the symphony of heavy metal. The odd company passes by in the other lane, unable to see my face as it is covered by goggles and rags. The fleeting glimpse of their faces whizzing by tell me I’m crazy—and they’re right. If I continue down the bizarre path of the less traveled, I may find myself washed up on the shores of oblivion, but so be it. In the worn leather seat sits a man, wild with fire and alight with elation, the wind and road guiding me further into uncertainty, away from the same. I am riding into darkness; into pits where there be dragons, monsters and unimaginable corruptions which await my arrival within the mawing abyss.

My speed increases, full throttle now, jarring the integrity of my rage injected death machine. I give the pedal no reprieve, carving through twists and turns, climbing higher through unforgiving mountains, an infinite cliff to my left. The frame rattles, straining under my demand, for it has never carried such a driver—the one who would drive it into a graveyard filled with spirits of its rusted brethren, leaving it behind without remorse. 

The surroundings fly by at dizzying speed. My wing span broadens, the outer feathers straining to be scorched by fire and Father Time, for their is no greater existence than stretching my limits to the brink of madness—physically, spiritually and intellectually. Cresting the final pass, there is a barren field, dense with dead flora and golden wheat. I pull to the side, leaving a dust storm in my wake. It’s time to stretch my legs and let my eyes grace the land below. I walk to the edge, looking down as king does his kingdom and I scream “WAR!”

Crows Fly Black

 

I carry only necessities, the small pack to my side enabling me to easily withstand thirty days in this foreign land. I do not wish to burden myself with pleasantries, nor too many comforts. The nomadic lifestyle is often devoid of both, the lack of material possessions replaced with journey and adventure; evenings staring into ancient ruins, the wild sea and the fiery globe melting the horizon; the meeting of perfect strangers, departing as friends; a new sun blazing down upon sweating skin during vigorous training upon historic sands; the dusk settling through the slotted shades of spartan rooms, bare, letting me focus on thought and reason as to why I am here, and who I wish to become. The minimalism offers no distraction, forcing me to uncomfortable places with my mind, mastering the art of loneliness.

…But above all, it offers freedom.

 

****

 

I am no longer human. I am a crow flying black against the tarmac, royal sky and patches of cloud. My vessel is a stripped down roll cage made of steel, yet would surely be obliterated upon impact. There are no windows or doors—only a full tank and my quick-twitch muscle fibers, honed and tested, choking the wheel like death itself. I soar through rolling pastures and walls of rotting stone. Beyond, turquoise oceans crash into jagged cliffs, their salty spray misting upward, gifting me with rural air. The waves meet their maker, yet more remain, the power of nature a metaphor of how I wish to live until the end of days.

I race alone, my bare skin soaking in the power of the yellow sun, my ears the symphony of heavy metal. The odd company passes by in the other lane, unable to see my face as it is covered by goggles and rags. The fleeting glimpse of their faces whizzing by tell me I’m crazy—and they’re right. If I continue down the bizarre path of the less traveled, I may find myself washed up on the shores of oblivion, but so be it. In the worn leather seat sits a man, wild with fire and alight with elation, the wind and road guiding me further into uncertainty, away from the same. I am riding into darkness; into pits where there be dragons, monsters and unimaginable corruptions which await my arrival within the mawing abyss.

My speed increases, full throttle now, jarring the integrity of my rage injected death machine. I give the pedal no reprieve, carving through twists and turns, climbing higher through unforgiving mountains, an infinite cliff to my left. The frame rattles, straining under my demand, for it has never carried such a driver—the one who would drive it into a graveyard filled with spirits of its rusted brethren, leaving it behind without remorse. 

The surroundings fly by at dizzying speed. My wing span broadens, the outer feathers straining to be scorched by fire and Father Time, for their is no greater existence than stretching my limits to the brink of madness—physically, spiritually and intellectually. Cresting the final pass, there is a barren field, dense with dead flora and golden wheat. I pull to the side, leaving a dust storm in my wake. It’s time to stretch my legs and let my eyes grace the land below. I walk to the edge, looking down as king does his kingdom and I scream “WAR!”