Notes From The Road II.

Some find it strange that I’m happiest when driving by myself. Picture it, my one hand on the upper arch of the steering wheel, the other lazily resting on the middle console. Perhaps only disturbed by a quick shuffle of the playlist, or a sip from the Sprite I just bought at that last padstal.

I read somewhere once, that this sense of belonging is called “giving in to the road’s promise”. I liked that, a constant promise to take me somewhere or rather, anywhere.

There’s something about being away from home that makes me feel at home. Funny, isn’t it? That a sense of placeless-ness can make me feel the most complete. It’s as if out here, my heart changes. Forever growing and expanding to these shifting landscapes. From never-ending expanses of dirt and dust, to mountains and beaches and rolling hills of yellow and gold.

On the road, the passing of people and places becomes a kind of cinema. A feature film of faces, strange every time, yet so familiar. Characters that I’ve come to see again and again; truck drivers smoking in their trucks, families in their fully-packed Fortuners, the retired couple, the bikers, the golden-haired surfer kids hitching rides up the coast. All of us so incredibly different, but sharing the road as we keep on going.

It gets me thinking about the people I meet along the way a lot. Out of all of these lives, are we destined to find some paths that cross with ours? It’s like a never-ending show of possibility that the road plays for you, if you let it. Moving pictures of chance, and luck, and serendipity.

Perhaps it’s this possibility that keeps me in the story. The demanding curiosity to see what lies beyond the next stop. That might be the consequence of my age–still in the springtime of life as they say- and still so much terrain to cover ahead. Perhaps it’s that. Perhaps I’m destined to always remain this way- seeking.

Perhaps I stay in the story because, out here, the road gives way to scenes that draw my heart from its cave. For my heart hides most days, by force of habit, but somehow, this little heart never fails to get drunk on the sweetness of the land and the simplicity of movement, and that promise of somewhere, anywhere, never being broken.