Freewrite

Everything was pictruesque in the most strange way.

A hill, shrouded in autumns beauty, overlooking my place of residence.

a pipe, burning hot with stolen Black Captain tobacco.

and me, pondering.

Sweatervest and confused gaze, I looked across the valley that was mine.

light, misty rain blew in and out; I watched the droplets of water jump from their homes on the leaves, and like a drifter or a wildman, they were gone before the tree could say goodbye, soaked into the wet, decandent earth.

The african wiseman inside of me sat, brow thick, heavy thoughts on his mind gone. The taste of the tobbacco was relaxing, the mist was chilling, a drop of cold realism. relaxed nonetheless.

a drop of water fell to my eye.

I snapped my neck up and let the smooth smoke float from my teeth and lips, hazed but not intoxicated at all,

eyes alert, alarmed, that drop of water convinced me that I was at a turning point in my life, that I was changed for the better;

a drop of cold fall water had become a wave of creative delights and inspiration.

body shivering with delight and the season's chill, I drew my sleeves over my knuckles. The hairs that never made it into my ponytail blew in the wind, bouncing. My face, thunderstruck with an expression of art, stood still

I grabbed the broken chair I was sitting on, dumped the ash from my pipe and sprinted down the hill

my life was beginning again