The feeling of my hair blown on my face, in my ears, and around my forehead is something unfamiliar, but this bench, the smell of exhaust, and the anticipation are not.
It has always been a journey, before I steppeed out my door I could feel it. It was the rush, the distant beeping, the only difference was the increase in gas prices. The store window displays are advertising the same things with new names or else have dissappeared with the window panes. The shady Mexican restaurant, the smell of grease, and fries and grass clippings.
The mountains? They're as constant as, as unmoving, as immovable as my Grandpa's constitution. Don't expect them to reflect the look of surprise I see on your face, they've seen it.
The screech of the wind through the windows has been there, but I just never realized before what it was screeching about. This time I want to join it.
But in the end, what really changes? Is it the people, the places, the weeds? Or is it only our opinions? The shoes we wear are a different brand, a different style, maybe a different color, but the same size, the same foot. And why does some change feel natural while other changes rip us apart?
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