Somewhere between here and there I rolled down my manual car window on the driver’s side, and let the swift wind flow like a course river into my little Chevy Cobalt. I speed along passing the Oak trees on the side of some lonely freeway. My foot slowly falls against the gas pedal throttling the vehicle forward, and I gaze on as the broken white line beside the car attempts to make sense of it all, and reconnect itself like a reel of film slides passing by to make a movie.
It’s in the car, when I’m driving on an open stretch of road, where everything makes sense and things fall into place. For me, driving, mostly by myself, is a therapeutic pastime that reveals the world to me in a way that is productive and relaxing. I get to a desired destination and I have a chance to either reconnect with my thoughts or sing way too loudly to my favorite songs. I try not to do it as often, but when I do get the chance to quickly make the car’s rubber meet the road, I cherish my time on the motorway and enjoy the ride.