Ramble On

A sublime imaginary moment that always pops in my head when I either imagine the perfect roadtrip, or listen to Zeppelin.

It is moments like this that life sheds its robes and stifling buckles of structure and worry. It bleeds all of its blood, sick with materialism and worldly concerns. These moments are what I call "the death of life", as life as we know it ceases to exist and is reborn in, a single blink, into something wonderful. Some substance apparently spilled from the hands of every God.
Late in the evening, when the sun grows in diameter; just as the belly of a king at a feast. And his, already indulgent, colours breathe out and become yet greater in their ambrosial warmth. All in sight is trans-mutated into gold, as Mother Nature is a secret Alchemist. (The only truly successful one in history.)
The long and winding dirt road is a straight shot into the center of the setting sun. All around is a stark, yet rich desert expanse. Its secrets buried deep, however whispered by once-dormant spirits into the ears of the silent two. Their tires marring the day's stillness.
They're driving too fast to notice much. A lizard skitting into the shade of a maternal rock. A coyote in pursuit of a desert fox with a zest for life. The possessed tongue of a formidable rattler, shooting in and out, in and out. However, unbeknownst to the natives, an epiphanous moment is born.
In the passenger seat, covered in trackmarks and sweat, her brain has stopped for a moment. Her heart is her mind and she absorbs it all; a beautiful sponge. She is flicking the beaded curtain behind her with black nails. They are not hippies, just renegade Freedom hunters.
Her tanned legs are crossed at the ankle, out the window. The periodic stings of insects dying do little other than keep her awake. "Ramble On." the supposedly devil-fueled song by Led Zeppelin pours from the old radio. Being so far out, the signal is carrying a reasonable amount of static. Somehow, it sounds clearer than anything she'd ever heard in her life. A terrible chain-smoker, her other hand fidgets with the green leather of the bucket seat. It is too hot to smoke.
As she pushes a bit of cocoa hair out of her eyes, flung there by the wind, for that second, images pulse through her subconscious. Faded daguerreotypes of the cowboys who possibly had camped, killed, or died on this land, and the Indians who might've done the same, flash for milliseconds each. In the death of that second, they dissipated, tucked into the pocket of her thoughts, to be reflected upon when she wasn't busy thinking of nothing.
Somewhere in the back, on the tiny mattress and under a small fan, Gypsie (their cat), sleeps. In half-waking, her rugged tongue combs through her luxuriant brown fur. She looks out the round window with her orange eyes, much like the Father of the day, surveying the passing clouds.
A flash of green, white, brunette, and Zeppelin; they're gone. Into the sun.

Author's Note

yeah. I don't really know what "type" of writing this is.

Reviews

[Bran the Broken]

Brilliant imagery, no presumptuous judgements, just pure stream-of-consciousness. Excellent stuff, save for a few grammar bloopers--use Word to try and weed 'em out, or have someone proof-read it personally/manually.