Trips

The reflections from my space are of seat back tray tables, empty soda cans and pages of crumpled novels. An infinite number of trips do not satisfy my restless nature. From home to school, the pages of my ruled notebook are compiled of endless sentences of poetry and prose. I stumble over the minutes, adjusting myself in my seat for a position of peace and rest. Finally, in comfort, I open into the pages and truly begin my journey, as I have countless times in the past, into my surroundings, whether immediate, distant, past or present.

I am creative by nature. The rules and confines of science, interesting and necessary as they are, can be tedious. I survive in small doses of scientific thought and in larger gulps consisting of the intricacies of life and the ways of others. There is no limit to creative endeavor. The black hole of creativity finds ways to suck in inquisitive minds without hopes of being remitted back with any form of normalcy.

An endless amount of times, I have found my thoughts spiraling out into bigger ideas, grown and branched into a million little pieces of everyday life with a million backdrops. Never finding myself void, the relentless machine between my ears churns without stopping. It is a world of its own, rarely at standstill, always with opinion or idea.

Before I know it, I am elsewhere. The open fields of the countryside blend into a large view of winter landscapes and grassland. The empty meadows immerse the mind, clearing them of the unnecessary. As the train churns forward, so do the thoughts accompanying these voyages of hundreds of kilometers. I have made note of the ideas, I have made sense on the restlessness and I have moved into a different scene before long.

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