Driving Myself Sane(?)
I don't know why I do, but I like going for a drive late on a weeknight. There's just something comforting in the darkness and the emptiness. It was raining tonight so the streets were glossy, laminated by the fallen rain. Then, in some places without street lights, in the distance illuminating the hazy gray of parking lot lights shown like a beacon. Meanwhile, headlights slicing the darkness like a saber, enclosed in my steel missile I cruise along through the desolation and the solitude. It's like I can vanish. It's like when those tail lights crest the hill or round the corner I'm gone. It's like I stand out because I'm almost completely alone on the street. But I have the freedom to disappear into the darkness, never to be seen again. Sometimes I want the darkness to envelope me, swallow me, make sure that no one will ever see me again. I don't know why I find this comforting. It's just something that makes me feel better.
Meanwhile, littering the roadside like little glittering oases are the gas stations and other 24/7 establishments. They spill their harsh white light and garish colored signage onto the street. They stand as little reminders that the world, whose absence is so obvious presently, is still there. They stand as brightly lit sanctuaries, quite, climate controlled refuge from the clammy cold of the drizzle outside. Inside I normally find bleary-eyed clerks whose first act was to size me up, then they decide I'm actually just buying the Dr. Pepper they return to whatever mundane task they were doing to whittle away the hours until the next shift shows up to relieve them. When I make my way to the counter to pay for my beverage they normally plow through the transaction with a minimum of chit-chat and after a “good night” or “good morning” I leave the shelter of the convenience store and venture forth again into the contradictory uncertain serenity of the night.
All the while I'm driving around in my shelter with the defogger on and a window cracked open. Meanwhile I have the stereo blasting with whatever music I felt like listening to. It's just a safe steel cocoon that can do 150mph when pushed hard enough. Of course the fastest I have ever been was I managed to get my Dodge up to 115 one time. Since that time I've slowed down, I still speed but I never go to those reckless levels anymore despite that I often get in the car feeling (if not suicidal) at least indifferent to the subject of my mortality. It's weird, it's almost comforting to know that I could kill myself so easily by just taking off the seat belt and letting go of the wheel. But I never do. I actually drive like a sane person. I don't understand it. All I know is I go out for a drive then come home feeling better.
I don't know if maybe the whole is greater than the sum of its parts or it's just the fact that I get the hell out of this 1000 sq ft cell. Either way, when I go for a drive it helps to bring me back. It helps to bring me down. I don't know what it is; I just know it works.
Meanwhile, littering the roadside like little glittering oases are the gas stations and other 24/7 establishments. They spill their harsh white light and garish colored signage onto the street. They stand as little reminders that the world, whose absence is so obvious presently, is still there. They stand as brightly lit sanctuaries, quite, climate controlled refuge from the clammy cold of the drizzle outside. Inside I normally find bleary-eyed clerks whose first act was to size me up, then they decide I'm actually just buying the Dr. Pepper they return to whatever mundane task they were doing to whittle away the hours until the next shift shows up to relieve them. When I make my way to the counter to pay for my beverage they normally plow through the transaction with a minimum of chit-chat and after a “good night” or “good morning” I leave the shelter of the convenience store and venture forth again into the contradictory uncertain serenity of the night.
All the while I'm driving around in my shelter with the defogger on and a window cracked open. Meanwhile I have the stereo blasting with whatever music I felt like listening to. It's just a safe steel cocoon that can do 150mph when pushed hard enough. Of course the fastest I have ever been was I managed to get my Dodge up to 115 one time. Since that time I've slowed down, I still speed but I never go to those reckless levels anymore despite that I often get in the car feeling (if not suicidal) at least indifferent to the subject of my mortality. It's weird, it's almost comforting to know that I could kill myself so easily by just taking off the seat belt and letting go of the wheel. But I never do. I actually drive like a sane person. I don't understand it. All I know is I go out for a drive then come home feeling better.
I don't know if maybe the whole is greater than the sum of its parts or it's just the fact that I get the hell out of this 1000 sq ft cell. Either way, when I go for a drive it helps to bring me back. It helps to bring me down. I don't know what it is; I just know it works.