Clouds

[Kvasir 1121]

Racketing past the wheels they move quickly, riding through the road, the soft tune of the gears echoing through the empty passage. Wind and clouds, from above, the popping colors, gone and done. Racketing past still, over rocks and holes, the soft impact moving through the suspension and then to the seat, comforting it. Nothing special, words that mean nothing, and thoughts for substance only there to fill up the void and to make something productive. It doesn't matter, there will be more days of cloudy rides and windy days. The movement giving a freedom - even if it doesn't matter to say something it still is nice, to share. Fear of being ridiculed keeps the simple joys away, and the simple joy moving here. Not able to be able to speak, to be told to speak. False choice here, more pressure... Stones zip by, the words don't mean much when you think of it. The remains of these thoughts racket as the wheels do, and the things you wish to do wash away with others who are too nervous to do the same. It doesn't mean much. Is this just because we think it doesn't, or does it, do people care?