Still water. It’s a 6.

Night sky black, moon slice through leafed branches brown, sparkle dots light the way
Journey set in motion, path illuminated, remnants of day

Carry them silent, boot crunch debris, storm unintended, two voices
Echoes ricochet, all what is what is taken what is left, two choices

Momma said be careful, still water don’t bend, hard pan don’t give
Walk straight your own path, if you want to live

The Road Untaken. It’s a 6.

But it’s not my dream, that was just it. How many times, how many examples, how many well intentioned comments over the years, the digital billboard flashing inside his head, reinforcing the misnomer; the thumbnail image exploded to full size. Asking oneself a rhetorical question is the first sign something’s wrong; he chuckled at the irony.

What possibly could be the catalyst, after all the foregone “this is it!’s filling the screenplay logbook that was most of his adult life? Was he ready to acknowledge the burden of carrying around the trappings of the once life, the might have been, the could be, because bottom line, none of it mattered.

He’d used no road map, no GPS, simply packed a bag, filled the car, hit the highway and drove, for days, for weeks until he saw the flashing light 50′ in the air, the approaching billboard partially lit, “Welcome to He……………..