Freeway #5 – II

The freeway became my rice paper.
Not for its shape,
but for what it carried:
my tired body,
my trying heart,
day after day—
home to work,
through the traffic,
through myself.
The thick black line down the center
marks the weight of the #5 freeway.
Mountains and trees passed in silence,
brushed in 먹물 (ink wash)—
calm, distant witnesses.
In the middle of all that heaviness,
something softened.
Color began to rise—
soft pinks, warm yellows.
They didn’t erase the dark,
but they lived beside it.
They consoled me.
They reminded me
that even this difficult road
was mine.
Chosen.
And now, quietly filled with joy.