Drive

Taking a drive, ripping up the road, the driver is going somewhere, somewhere. The driver is unaware of his destination, but he hopes it will be beautiful. When all is said and done, it will be peace, if all is said and done right, he thinks. Nay, he hopes. Because that is all he has done on this ride, is hope, but the source dwindles with every mile. He has used speed to overcome frailty, the driver only feels right when he is shooting off into the distance, so fast that the open top whips air in, making it hard to breathe. When the air cuts out of his throat, his mouth shooting open from shock, he feels alright. These diversions take him away from the curving and sickening road, from the fears that slowly corrode him, like salt to his convertible. The driver felt uneasy of the lack of a destination and the nearness of the end, all at once. He has hit some nasty bumps on this road, especially since he hits them at such a velocity. His car shows some of the marks to remind him, and so does he. Yes, some of these marks have changed him. He drives quite recklessly at this point. If the driver were to send another driver off the road, he would not feel guilty. There had been a time, when it would have upset him, but now it was just a minor oversight. This happened on the road. If they did not make it to the destination, all the better, for the road was perilous and altered the driver, better to be unchanged, better to stay off the road. Sometimes the droning of the engine has tired the driver, he has wished to slow, but felt that he couldn’t. There was no tiring on this road, and in fear has stepped on the gas. If he had slowed, the driver, wondered, would I have seen something else? Did I miss something? He has left beautiful paradises to enter hellish dumps. Sometimes the driver fears that he has hastened to get to nothing; that there is no true end, that it is truly just a parking lot, or a cliff. What if I am not prepared when the end comes, what if it’s not what I wanted? Then I have hurried, have left everything behind for nothing. What if I find that I rushed through the best part? His hand gripped the steering wheel at this thought, and he pushed on the gas, gunning it down a hill and up a steep incline. The scenery has changed so vastly, but all on the same pavement, all to the same end, no matter what roads he takes. So he drives; the wind whipping about his head, a maddeningly high whistle circling and spiraling around his head. He has sometimes listened closely to the wind, heard voices in it. The driver prays there is someone watching out for him, that protects and ensures a fitting end. The driver implores for someone to see his intentions, to remember what the road has done to him; but most, for the destination to be worth driving to. Taking a drive, ripping up the road, the driver is going somewhere, somewhere.