The addiction I can’t quite shake leaves me chewing nicotine gum, right before popping a smoke at the place where I stop because my butt’s numb. It’s burning my throat though as the sun is burning my bare shoulders–why do I do this?

I drive on.

The hills look like something approachable, and I think of a pilgrimage upon their surreal slopes, but there are too many fences out here. And it’s really rock and hard-packed dirt, eroded by the stronger element that isn’t tangible. My feet would slip from beneath me, rejected like the unworthy particles of dirt sloughed off every day.

I drive on.

I see a lone tree and its shadow looks burnt–a marker of resurrection or a grave?–and I think of my new endeavor to write more. I think of the dimwits and gems in the archives here, saved, and how I am just like them. Or I thought I was, before.

I drive on.

What do I seek on this trip? Freedom? Battery recharge as easy as setting your phone on the dock? Psychic regeneration, divine inspiration? I think not. I see a flicker and wonder if I have had a dream which was not all a dream*. That the sun blinked out of existence. But R.E.M.’s “Leave” still plays, so I drive on.

I had the perhaps pointless idea that this blog would be an avenue to solely express myself professionally–whatever that means (I hardly think discussing my cats constitutes)–but what a wacky aspiration when the body of a writer’s writing is oftentimes more celebrated by all–including themselves–than their own. And I realize: an exploration of the self, that’s precisely what this is.

I drive on.

I’ve seen the ocean before, looked at it as I do the night sky, in awe of its ability to make me feel small and all those other clichés that are actually true. I’ve soaked in the sun before until I turn into a tomato, but cogito ergo sum nevertheless. I do it now as a reclamation of self, and therefore I drive on.

*from Byron’s “Darkness”

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1 Response to Roadtrip

  1. Pingback: 5 Things I Learned From My Roadtrip | A. B. Davis


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