Allowing my mind to wander

The empty road laid out before me, stretching the great expanse of my life, or at least stretching itself between Reading and Lancaster. Sparklehorse was playing through my car speakers and the window, halfway open, allowed the warm night air to rush into my car. I was traveling 65 mph down 222 North headed for home. Every few miles a green sign would pass, almost anonymously, almost, but not quite. These signs heralded exits to towns I knew by heart. And in between these green signs stood obnoxious orange signs announcing "Caution: Road Work Ahead. Left Lane Closed." And yet, I knew that these signs were lies. There was no road work happening on 222 at 2:27 AM. There never was. And really, why should there be? It's 2:27 in the morning, for Chrissakes!

The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.

65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:

So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?

Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.

Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....

Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.

People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?

My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.

Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.

Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?

And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.