sidetracked

You’re a routine person. You pump gas at the same gas station and pump every day. You attempt to park in the same parking spot. Your feet move in an even, precise dance, so comfortable and easy you could do it with your eyes closed. But one day you veer off course. Perhaps it rains and you’re caught without an umbrella. Maybe you're forced to hurriedly alter your path, trudging through the mud, entering through the back. Your hair is dripping, and the goosebumps have raised on your arms in tiny, perfect rows. And you come upon this face. A face that holds your attention. And there’s a voice. And you say hello maybe. Your shirt is stuck to your chest. Your books are soaked from giant raindrops. You're a mess. But they smile. And you smile. A chance meeting, of sorts. A fleeting feeling. But you won’t chase the way it feels. Just let it fade away, slowly, until the only remembrance lingers in your fingertips and you struggle to put words in its absence. You recognize you’re living on a dull rectangle you’ve retraced time and time again. You put pen to paper and your hand aches from writing, but you’re fond of the pain, it feels WORTHWHILE. So, maybe tomorrow you’ll discover a way to get lost all over again. To deviate. Maybe being lost is the essence of having something to say at all.