Time…

…seems to be running away from me.

These days, I tend to live from weekend to weekend. Time spent with C is worth more than all the money in the world. Worth more than diamonds and pearls. The best way for me to spend my time these days it would seem. So I’ve been remiss in replying to my comments, reading your stuff and even posting my own. Please bear with me. I read all the comments, but I’ve been in a a bit of a funk lately. Even the kids have sort of moaned about all the time I’m NOT spending on them! The eldest understands and he’s OK with the life I’m developing. The youngest, however, not so much. He, by the way, is on his way back to SA as we speak. Belgium turned out to be covered in red tape loving bureaucrats – Β not quite the land of milk and honey he thought it would be like. Still. He’s got a father whose in-laws are mostly in the pound sheets, so all is not lost. I can only hope this lesson was expensive enough…

Me and C? Happiness is. Still. At the moment he’s working a night shift, and I’m at his house, waiting for him to come home to me. Such welcome I see in his eyes every time we meet. Such acceptance I experience. I am still blessed. Further to that, the following…

Night driving. One of my little joys.

Something quite cathartic about being in a car when the rest of the world sleeps.

You, your tunes. A smoke every so often, a swig of water. Through the open window you can hear the car’s tyres sweeping across the black tar. On the horizon you see the growing brightness of another car. It invades your solitude, fills the interior of the vehicle with it’s discordant sounds. Seconds and it’s over. Only the waning glow of the red taillights falling behind you, the darkness ahead of you becoming tangible again. Even if you know where you’re going, even if you know the road you’re travelling on, the darkness ahead can bring anything. It can bring death. It can bring aliens. Usually it brings the end to your journey. Every revolution of the engine, every turn of the wheel, every white line that flashes by brings you closer to where you want to be.

It’s been a while since I really traveled any kind of distance late at night. Not counting the few times I visited C, these past few months. Friday night I was in the right frame of mind to appreciate the solitude that night driving should bring. I immersed myself in the darkness surrounding me, reveled in the unknown opening up in the glare of my car’s headlights. The road led me to one place. Where I want most to be these days.

On that note, I’ll leave you with a brilliant rendition of Vivaldi’s Four seasons – Winter. My favourite of them all, by Β a brilliant violinist, and quite a good tune to accompany you on a late night drive of any kind…

And then, this one. I had to include a gushing song πŸ˜‰

Long days and pleasant nights…

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15 comments on “Time…

    • I’m planning on downloading a whole slew of Nigel Kennedy’s stuff – he rocks πŸ˜‰
      Glad you liked my waxing lyrical Col – I’m not as good with words as you are, but I like them nevertheless. The words that is πŸ™‚

  1. J, every new couple retreats from the world while they get to know one another – it is a very unique and special time. You’ve waited and waited, you’ve earned this one, J. The others may whine because you’re actually taking time for yourself and your future, not theirs. So be it. This is your little piece of the pie. Do. It. HuntMode offering unsolicited advice. πŸ™‚

    • Loving your advice P, solicited or no πŸ™‚
      I really feel as if everything I’ve done up till now has been bringing me to this point – I would not change it for the world!

  2. Ah, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons brings back memories — not romantic ones, but amused ones of my daughter as a pre-schooler. She was so hyperactive in those days that the only way to rescue her from herself (and give me a moment’s peace) was to lay her down on the sofa with her teddy bear and put on her favourite vinyl record of the Four Seasons. No other music would do. Sometimes, I put it on replay.

    Her other favourite piece of music was Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, but this tended to over-stimulate her — especially the final movement of the symphony about the wrecking of Sinbad’s ship against the cliffs in a storm.

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