It was like some kind of Kansas holding pattern, watching the power lines subtly dip and rise against a watercolor sunset. My consciousness mimicked their movement and I realized that I was strung like power lines between where I'd come from and where I was going. My soul felt heavy and I slept - the cab of a pickup truck, restless kind of sleep - on and off for hours. Sunflowers. Windmills. Unfamiliar license plates. Middle-America. I dreamt Kerouac dreams about cross-country adventures and a Dharma Bum take on material consumption. The further east, the muggier it became. The further east the further from home I got. The further east the greater the availability of fried chicken, biscuits, and something called a Boburito.
When it rained I leaned my head against the window, an iPod gently soothing my anxiety (skipping songs that I felt too deeply for now), and remembered 12 hour Patagonian bus rides. Alone. And I felt alone again. The kind of alone one feels knowing that they are doing something meaningful and that there is no way to make another person fully understand. A positive, a brave alone.
When it rained I leaned my head against the window, an iPod gently soothing my anxiety (skipping songs that I felt too deeply for now), and remembered 12 hour Patagonian bus rides. Alone. And I felt alone again. The kind of alone one feels knowing that they are doing something meaningful and that there is no way to make another person fully understand. A positive, a brave alone.
