November Morning


 

It’s quite the gloomy scene outside my window, with blueish-grey skies looking like they’re ready to cry. As for me I’m not feeling as blue, for one I got a pretty good nights sleep. Without the crazy heavy dreams of the past few days. While it’s very warm for this time of year, I still feel a crispness in the air with more moisture than I’m used to feeling in late November. Sitting here in a thin cotton t-shirt I don’t ask myself how I am feeling today. Fearing that I might not like the answer on such a strange November morning.

So I observe the silence of the outside, taking in the slightest hint of pinestraw in the air. It’s definitely not an unfamiliar smell for me. Considering the piles of pinestraw, me and my family had to rake and burned in the yard over the fall. Even now outside of the small towns that dot the area. Pine trees are big business with many a tree farms labeled and owned my farmers and paper mills alike. I was never privy to the life of a tree farmer or any other kind of farmer for that matter, other than small garden plots.

Thinking like a stranger in a strange land again, I feel but don’t feel like I’m part of this place. Separated from my hometown, I no longer feel like a prodigal son either. For the place I called home for thirty years is just as strange to me as well. So what do I call this scene I observe from outside my window? Maybe more than anything else a quiet reflection of the emotions I carry deep inside. Where I’m not exactly home, but I’m not a stranger either. More than anything I feel more like a commodity used to exchange goods and services. That I am just a number on a page, a statistic on a curve, to be analyzed and judged on my performance. So excuse my melancholy but life no matter how free. Is often scrutinized just for it’s worth. 


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