It was raining the day Peter decided to go. It didn’t matter, for there was nobody there to see him part—no one would get soaked waving at him under showery umbrellas. With showery faces. It was just him, not bothering to lock the door—there was nothing left inside anyway.
He headed east not because it was what everyone else did, but because it felt like the right way. The right path, even if not the least travelled. He hated clichés, but loved tradition. It was a delicate balance.
Sometimes he wished he had brought a camera with him—to capture the stillness of the mountains. The carelessness of the rivers. The patience of the woods—but most of the times he just breathed in the landscape, making it a part of his soul.
He walked until the loneliness became solitude.
Today's freewrite! based on the prompt solitude. Awfully short. I'm aware.
