I wrote through those days. Not all the important things, but things. Words. Thoughts.
Every moment was huge. It was the moment.
Slowing down and waiting something out didn't seem like an option.
I'm well past those years now, but sometimes those eternal days still show up.
Sunday was one of those days. A long car ride with music and stories and laughing about sheep. Dreaming of different places to live and words to be written. Each leaf of every tree hit by the light from the slowly melting sun was a poem.
I think I could have stayed in that car forever. Or maybe I did stay there.
The road calls to me with no destination in mind, and each time I answer that call it is harder and harder to turn back toward home.
One day forever might not end.