The stress and anxiety of the city begin to fade away as soon as I’m out of town. The fast tempo of the open road should cause serious terror, but the sweet rumble of the engine soothes me into the false sensation of safety. Rough vibrations of the twin engine travel across the foot pegs and seep into my toes, jolting through the bends of my legs before settling in my lower back. A twist of a wrist shakes my arms, passing through my bent elbows to reside in my shoulders. The untimely cool summer air of Chouf slips through the cuffs, and plays inside my zipped jacket. Cruising through the narrow hills, I snap up my mirror blue face shield, wind gushing on my face, grazing my temples, whistles past my ears, and exits near my neck. The black pavement slides underneath me, so close, at points, only inches away. Hard and rough, as my brains perceives it, but in my eyes, it glistens and glides. Temptations to reach out and rub the leather of my gloves, and …show more content…
I remember I told them something like, “I’d rather sweat than bleed, and plus leathers are like health insurance, you never know when you might need it, and you only need it when you don’t have it”. The idea of making connections with the road that can abrade layers of skin, severely, is undesirable in all cases, but more so without the wearable insurance policy. Back then, they just laughed at the thought in disagreement. Through the crowd, I was looking for them, to point it out, to show them what I was talking about. To my surprise, they came by to check up on me, and the first words they utter are something along the lines of, “damn, what an insurance policy, had you been wearing these textiles (pointing to their attire) you probably would have had a joy ride in the backside of an ambulance wearing a torn out suit.” As funny as that might sound within context, but it really was not at all. But I
The tones demonstrated in the first two paragraphs present a sense of nervousness and chaos. Beller creates these tones by making the scene appear to be a normal day, but as he pedals farther down the street he can tell that this is not just a normal week day. In the distance Beller can see the black smoke rising from
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
The drive to cross the Kentucky border had taken hours and hours of strenuous patience to finally arrive in another state. The view was by far country like as hints of cow manure could be smelled far from a distance. We drive through small towns, half the size of our hometown of Glen Ellyn had been the biggest town we've seen if not smaller. The scenery had overwhelmed us, as lumps of Earth from a great distance turned to perfectly molded hills, but as we got closer and closer to our destination the hills no longer were hills anymore, instead the hills had transformed to massive mountains of various sizes. These mountains surrounded our every view as if we had sunken into a great big deep hole of green pastures. Our path of direction was seen, as the trails of our road that had followed for numerous hours ended up winding up the mountainous mountains in a corkscrew dizzy-like matter.
My sweat soaked shirt was clinging to my throbbing sunburn, and the salty droplets scalded my tender skin. “I need this water,” I reminded myself when my head started to fill with terrifying thoughts of me passing out on this ledge. I had never been so relieved to see this glistening, blissful water. As inviting as the water looked, the heat wasn't the only thing making my head spin anymore. Not only was the drop a horrifying thought, but I could see the rocks through the surface of the water and couldn't push aside the repeating notion of my body bouncing off them when I hit the bottom. I needed to make the decision to jump, and fast. Standing at the top of the cliff, it was as if I could reach out and poke the searing sun. Sweat dripped from my forehead, down my nose, and on its way to my dry, cracked lips which I licked to find a salty droplet. My shirt, soaked with perspiration, was now on the ground as I debated my
“I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
Upon arrival into the jungle of vast buildings, the first thing noticed is the mobbed streets filled with taxi cabs and cars going to and fro in numerous directions, with the scent of exhaust surfing through the air. As you progress deeper into the inner city and exit your vehicle, the aroma of the many restaurants passes through your nostrils and gives you a craving for a ?NY Hot Dog? sold by the street venders on the corner calling out your name. As you continue your journey you are passed by the ongoing flow of pedestrians talking on their cell phones and drinking a Starbucks while enjoying the city. The constant commotion of conversing voices rage up and down the streets as someone calls for a fast taxi. A mixed sound of various music styles all band together to form one wild tune.
A harmonious clash and the last clear notes of the vocalist trail off and I suddenly find myself sitting on the transit, everything once again moving along at a tranquil pace, the guitar once again taking up its rhythmic strums that slowly push my day forward. I look outside at the passing scenery, bathed in the morning light. The ethereal sounds of a supporting guitar dreamily laze by like the slowly passing trees outside. The tranquil sound of the consistently timed guitar strums brings peace to my day. Before I know it, I arrive at my destination and I get off.
The darkness loomed above me, the few remaining stars twinkling sporatically, as if the emptiness was snuffing them out. I waved goodbye to my friends at the comic store, my usual stop on Thursday nights. I grabbed my bike and began pedaling, pushing myself up for the arduous journey home. After a short time, I entered the maze-like development aptly named "Fireside. " I rode my bike at a carefree pace, after all I had taken this route at least once a week.
Life on the road pertains to two kinds of people, those who can’t isolate themselves from others and those who are able to isolate themselves. However, those who travel constantly and travel because of work, are suited for this kind of lifestyle. They are able to mobilize and adapt easier than those who are not in favor of traveling or constantly hitting the road.
I move aside to the footpath after roaming here and there like a vagabond in the streets. It has been half an hour I am exploring this city like a dumb. If I feel I take a turn, If I don’t I keep strolling straight. I am lost here already, lost in these yellow woods of hazy aspirations, without any
...ming with life. The smell of the flowers was intense and enlivening. The breeze that was not restricted by car windows, the heat that was not reflected by a rooftop or eradicated by air conditioning, the rain that was not repelled by anything more than my poncho, I was one with all of it. As I biked past, I moo'd as loud as I could at the cows in the fields and felt happy doing it. I even occasionally rode in the van when I was tired.
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
My fingers clench the rough table, knuckles white from brute force. I close my eyes as the unforgiving sun glares at me clouding my vision and I ask myself, yet again, for the umpteenth time the reason...