One Picture One Story

The road was considerable and considerable behind him, and a quiet company of possibility on and away into the horizon. He was in the place between where he was and where he was going and the world was melting all around him as though it were a dream, but definitely asleep.

It was not a photograph, that but a break.

Some light load was lying up in the clouds in the sky above, and cloud-drifts were drifting above, and they said nothing. The stillness of the uninhabited road was more noisy than sound, and seemed to ask him questions by himself. He smiled not because he was not happy, but because he was reasoning--actually reasoning--of all that had brought him to that one point.

The car underneath was not a machine and a movement, it was a witness. It had required him many days of long days and twists and curves and nights in silence of contemplation. It was here now as he himself, a moment of rest before going on in the next adventure.

To be alone on an open road is something tough. No distraction, no expectation, no, it is you and your thoughts. There you start thinking of yourself differently. You know that there is no superfluous step which is taken, however small.

He knew that he was not going to sail throughout. Bumps, turns and doubts there would be. But with a promise in his heart--a promise which he had made himself as he stood there and looked right up the lens--a promise never to stop, never to take his rest, never to lose his roots--he promised himself.

Any road, however long, is made of things of this kind-- quiet, common, and forgettable.

And maybe it is the veritable story.

Not the destination. Not the speed.

But the manliness to press on, where the trail appears to be endless.

Thanks for reading my post.