The Boundary Between Both

The Boundary Between Both

“The deep blue prairie skies caressing the land, with it’s golden glow. Not only gold in color, but in heart and soul as well. The grass blows in the wind, like the waves of Pacific Ocean that I used to visit as I child. But my child days are long gone. My dreams, however, are not. I love this land, as it loves me, but the bright red barn has lost it’s color. It stands there, dull and empty. Sure, it may be filled with livestock, wise animals with their own stories to tell, but when I look inside, I see nothing. The town down the road, full of joy joy and friendship, seems gray and depressing. The familiar faces around me seem to have lost their warmth, and it chills me to be near them. In my old blue house, in my old blue room, and on my old blue wall, rests the small fire that keeps me awake at night. A picture of a city. It’s shining lights and bustling activity, hundreds of unfamiliar faces, all with their own path in life, sometimes crossing yours, sometimes not. Today, though, the fire is near death, and I have to revive it. My bags are packed, not with clothes or possessions, but with hopes and dreams. The rusted truck waits outside, an archaic vessel to a new life. I get in and drive.”

“The tall, dull buildings reach to the sky, whispering to them their invisible secrets. Radio waves, television waves, personal waves, hateful waves, ignorant waves. The poisonous emotions mix with the clouds and drain the color out of them. The sun is hidden, scared to show it’s face in a place like this, scared that it might run into a spire from the buildings built on greed. And with the absence of the sun, the color disappears as well. Outside the rats scurry, some waiting for the traffic lights to tell them how to live their lives, some ignoring the rules altogether. My thoughts are drowned out by the concoction of noises, all sinister and depressing in their own way. A child’s cry, a gunshot, a car horn, a door slam, a drunk man stumbling home. And when he drops his bottle of whiskey on the decaying cement, the world stops. Not because of the shattering glass, his shattered dreams trapped inside, but because the light has turned red. Red, yellow, green; all grey in my eyes. But I can find color. Its inside a little box I keep beside my bed, a shrine to a dream. A picture of the countryside, with its blue skies and friendly faces, lies inside. This place is a prison and I need to escape. I get inside my car and drive.”

The two vehicles arrive at the unsaid border between country and city. A new life ahead, an old life behind, and both cars stop. The woman in truck stares at the man in the car. She sees the hatred in his eyes, the discontent with his life. She sees his car, much different from her own, and all the unfamiliar stains on it. His clothes, his hair, all new and scary. And as she looks at him, he looks at her. He notices her dirty face, eyes worn and tired. Her truck, rusted, seems menacing, as the sound of the engine batters his ears. Her torn clothes, her tattered hat, are all unpleasant emblems of her life. And with the knowledge of their encounter, they turn around and go back the way they came. But this time, the road doesn’t seem so empty. As they drive back home, the sun rises, and with it, it holds color.
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