symphony

Warm, soft summer rain after a week of beautifully sunny skies.
Accompanying thunder, lightning, pockets of hail and patches of blue.
The sweet scent of dry earth and vegetation becoming saturated once again.
The smell of dusty, oil-covered pavement turning into gentle waterways; tiny waves rippling downhill, forming miniature rivers at the curb, dragging away leaves and rocks that were forgotten by the winter.

* * * *

He wondered what it all meant. 'If the skies and the trees and the waves and the wind are the medium for the message, then what should I be taking from this?' he pondered as a few giant drops of rain began to appear on the windshield. 'I understand simple sunny weather, and I understand chaotic, destructive windstorms, but this is too beautiful to understand.' His eyes drifted back and forth, attempting to soak in the sky as much as he could, while ensuring the white and yellow remained an equal distance from each wheel. The day had become another for the memory banks. 'How many days have to go by before another like this will occur?' he asked himself. 'How often will I be given the chance to feel alive, in the monotonous discontent of suburb life?'

* * * *

Writing is freedom. It is a way to remember. It's a tool to increase vocabulary. It's a method to improve spelling, in a world dependent on [spell check]. Writing is a way to communicate when photographs aren't available. Writing is a way to say what can't be spoken, to pen what hasn't been considered. It's a way to evoke emotion, in both the writer, and the reader. It's a way to relax, to put oneself at ease, to enjoy ones own company.

* * * *

Float above the world in a hot air balloon.
Run at least one marathon. Any one. Anywhere.
Climb to the top of a snow-capped mountain.
Live out of a suitcase for at least 6 months.
Canoe through a lake, a creek, or a river in the wilderness.
Jump out of a plane, parachute ready.
Enjoy a sunrise at least once a week during the summer.