A Perfect Piece of Machinery
My motorcycle is a perfect piece of machinery. A paradise on a pair of wheels. A sleek vessel meant to transport me through time and space, leaving all the stress, the worries and the less than lively bits of reality blowing away like autumn leaves in my tailwinds. This is my special place, without being a single place at all. A continuously moving point of the world, a dot on the map tracing paths of pavement in swerving lines and curving swells like an ocean. I leave all the billboards and advertisements in the breeze, all of the attempts to take away a part of who I am, what I’ve earned. For this moment, it’s all in the past. My motorcycle is where I am free. Steadily churning along the highways and byways, trees and turns sailing on by in equal measure. In this moment, I am not my job title and I am not whatever labels have been stuck to me. I have no past and no future and my present is the gift of the wind. I am an eagle in flight. I am a sailor at sea. I am the greatest thing
