The open road would forever hold my fate. I always wrote about the road. I know where I began and where I got lost, but I’ll never know the end. The twists and turns are the mistakes in my life, and there are no U-turns. But I drive on. I write of the open road.
When we moved to the countryside, we would take long drives back to reality, the Bronx and Seaford. I felt lost in a world that I did not understand, parted only by a sheet of glass. I felt alone, wrapped only in thought, and nobody spoke to me. My brothers would elbow me or pull my hair, but there were no bonds to be shared. We were all lost to our own world, surrounded by time and memory. We were young, and we dreamed bright. But do we still dream?
I often wonder this. How did I get here? All those detours have led me across broken, jagged bridges, and I bled. And I cried. So many mistakes, and no U-turns. I don’t regret all my life, but I regret the major moments that did not have to exist. If only I listened to myself, if only I knew, but these thoughts were now just whispers. And I’m here standing across the road.
I’ll never know the end. The road continued to wind, and I am finally on solid ground. But am I following the right path? It’s so easy to get lost, forget where you should be going, and before you know it, your destination is claimed by the rearview mirror. And to another end, I go, hoping for bright skies and not dark remains.
The road would always be my friend and my enemy. I have traveled alone for a very long time. Baz Luhrmann was right when he said that friends may come and friends may go, but I believe that they are the strangers that we meet on the road, strangers to forever change our life. We are better and worse because of them. Sometimes, we tried to be careful, avoid the hitchhiker, but what journey would wait, if we kept the door closed? There’s caution, and there’s life. And life is a lonely place, if stuck driving down a long, dark road.
My story would not stop here. There’s a bridge in the horizon, another turning point, another year. It might be a slow crawl or a fast and furious ride. Solitude might be my companion for now, but who knows who waits down the road? And I drive on. I write of the open road, ready for another chapter to begin.