Maybe I’ve gotten more boring, or maybe more bored with myself. Either way, I’ve changed.
Used to be I’d look at a long drive alone as the chance to do some major reflecting, make a big decision, get a grasp on something confounding. I’d anticipate these drives for weeks, even guard them if someone offered to make the trip with me. I’m not sure if in all that “me” time I ever reached a single important conclusion; most of what I’ve sorted out about myself over the years has taken far longer than a day to figure. Still, for more than a decade, solo road trips came with high expectations.
Now? Nuthin. Last night I must’ve been on the road for two hours before it occurred to me that I was going to be all by myself for awhile, so I might want to take the opportunity to think about…something. I drew a blank for five minutes, then turned the music back up.
I did, however, make one discovery: if a lit up firefly splatters against the windshield of a moving car, it leaves behind a glowing streak. This realization was life-altering only for the firefly.
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