As I drove

It has been raining off and on for days now, and so there is a perpetual fine mist about the air. I hadn't noticed the mist until I was driving back to my apartment sometime just after midnight tonight. I rolled down my driver's side window to let the Louisiana night into my car. The muggy air slid over my face like a wet, warm blanket. The roads were empty except for roadkill and the occasional car, and in complete honesty, I was happy for it. My mind was free to wander as I drove. It wasn't until I reached Antioch Road that I realized that the air was full of visible water vapor. My lonely car drove down the road, dodging the muffled halos of light from street lamps that lined the nearly straight piece of pavement. A beautiful, whitewashed fence stood guard over open fields that stretched into the darkness of the night. Something about this place, this road, these muted orbs of light, this proud fence, made me feel like I had fallen asleep and woken up within a dream. It was so beautiful that I had trouble believing that such a place existed in real life. Even more interesting was the way that driving down this stretch of road made me feel as though I was the only soul on Earth, as though no one else existed and I had found the Garden of Eden. At the same time, I felt connected to this place, like I was reliving a memory. It was a strange experience to feel as though I was in a dream, while simultaneously feeling as though I was experiencing deja vu, as though I'd been here before. And for just a second, that strangeness made the world a magical place full of merging potentials and memories.

The mutterings of a sleep deprived girl

It's late night here. Or maybe it's early morning. Is this what they call the pre-dawn hours? I suppose the time of day doesn't really matter though. What matters is that I'm sitting here, alone with my thoughts, in a room that feels more like a prison than a sanctuary. And I'm lonely. I'm not often lonely, though when loneliness strikes it always seems to find me at night when everyone else is happily dreaming. Even my cat is comfortably snoozing at my feet. Maybe if I hadn't drank so much coffee today, or was it yesterday already, I'd be able to sleep too.

I'm not being fair though. The coffee that I drank is only partially responsible for my wakefulness. Mostly, I am plagued by racing thoughts that follow one after the next, as though attached to each other like a train. The worst part is that these thoughts have little substance. They aren't important. I am not awake in the middle of the night because I am solving some great mathematical equation, or because I have just composed the next Moonlight Sonata. No, I'm awake because of thoughts like these: "I wonder if they have a lot of mosquitoes in Louisiana," and, "How many germs and how much bacteria does chlorine really kill when it's used in a public swimming pool?" and "Why does my ionizer make that annoying hissing noise even after I've cleaned it?" Why is it that these are the questions keeping me awake at night?

I'd play my guitar to help me relax, but it's almost four in the morning and I don't think that the other people who live here would take kindly to rock 'n' roll interrupting their slumber. I'd paint in the basement, but it appears that I am out of paint thinner right now. I'd read a book, but that would only give my mind more material to think about. So instead, I'm blogging, which doesn't seem to be helping much either. Rather than moving smoothly through my mind, my thoughts seem to have become a jumbled, tangled mess.

I suppose that my thoughts will fade away as I drift off to sleep. Until then, I will wonder if I should repaint my toenails with a bolder shade of silver glitter. I'll wonder if my impending move to Louisiana will give me the change of venue that I have been craving. And I'll wonder exactly how many hours of sitting in a car I can endure before my legs begin to tingle, cramp or ache.

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.