roads are simply magical. they begin just slab after slab of concrete and still; they link and wind and take us place after place after place. the most magical roads, of course, are the one’s we travel often. they become a part of our matter, of our bones, of our very being. the places that mark the end of roads become piece after piece of us. we walk around full of them and then again to just see the sights of old moments leads to a floodgate of memories.
isn’t it lovely to think that each road our feet or wheels or mind travels belongs to another also. it could be the hometown of another. it could be the story of high school football games or break ups or late night college runs or emergency coffee breaks. it could be the story of lonely travels or laughs with sweet friends or moments where you simply ran away
// we all have these roads//
they belong to us, to our hearts, to who we have become.
i think one of the things that i love the most about knowing another so closely is the fact that in a friend you share spaces of meaning and memory, and yet, each of us has our secret separate lives wrapped into the locations within our bones. and we may share these with another, but we never fully can give them away, not really. the roads and moments and the sights that bring us swiftly to another time of us entirely have a soul attached to them—a secret soul that in the end is alone reserved for each of us.
the secret world within our hearts; the matter of those well worn roads.