Neon Lights

There's that feeling when you are driving
home at night, and every silhouetted tree
and bush and hill creates a backdrop for those
thoughts that come at night when the only
sound that can be heard is the muffled wind
rushing by outside your window and the
gentle friction of your tires on the smoothly
paved asphalt. Small golden lights twinkle in the
not-so-far distance of the city down in the valley,
where busy taxis and lightning cars speed past in
a flashing line of neon light through the streets and
avenues and alleyways, an intricate system of
weaving together the fabric of the city.
As you pass by each darkened shadow of daytime
delight, a rather pensive cloud overtakes you,
settles on your mind, takes root, and grows,
sprouts, blooms into a flower of soft, sable color
with velvety petals glistening with a sweet metallic nectar
that sticks to the tongue and dissolves on the roof of
your mouth, diffusing into the inner acid and spreading
throughout the veins, making it all the way to the heart,
the feeling organ that tentatively searches for that right,
perfect calling, that right, perfect person, the one who will
make everything seem as if all the world is blooming with
perpetual springtime roses and violets, daisies and tulips.
And perhaps, for just a moment, you sense something
that is not of your normal constitution, some sort of urge
to do something, to be something that will make
a true difference in the world, and just be that person,
be that go-getter, the one who has traveled, who has been
places outside of your hometown streets and seen amazing things
and tried scary things and done everything under the sun
and the moon as well; the feeling that the life you lead has
not yet reached its peak and the best is yet to come, but you
will pass it by soon if you don't look for it and be spontaneous
and leave the neon lights below and simply go drive
somewhere out there, somewhere that will make for a good story.