He closes his eyes when the dust cloud bites his face.
“It would have been much faster if you took the mountain tracks” he hears in
his head, like a punishment for his bad decisions. The nearly dead bushes dance
to the wind’s rhythm under the sunshine in the dusty desert where a snail of
tractor tracks? cut through the mountains.
The motorbike breaks the natural aspect of the open
field as the wheels cut the land. The blue pieces of the motorbike’s body turn
brown while mud starts to eat away at the youth of the vehicle. The pair of
jeans and leather jacket of the driver get more and more worn, and the city
style helmet gets punished by the dust and insects.
No skyscrapers, but only tall trees in sight; no smoke
or fog, but only dust. Nothing like the big cities that he used to live in. The
motor on the bike roars as its driver pulls the accelerator pedal with an impatient
rage. “I don’t like cross-country” was all he could say.
The mountains stared the
sky as the sun falls long and far away. The mirror-like surface of the lake
makes all of red landscape hotter. The random placed bushes and trees give a
green point to the painting. The black breath of the motorbike breaks the
monotony of inhabitation.
One white house appears between the mountains as the tail end of a
village. The road becomes cut as the motorbike runs straight to his
destiny. A little mole appears in middle of the path finding a nasty end.
Some kids playing cards
says hello to a black suited man in the entrance of the village. This man with
a brown folder is in a sea of rural life. A sea where the man looks like an urban island, where the
driver can hide and survive in this entire rural world that he hates.
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