I want to take a road trip. Not one of those lame, two hour, short trips. I want to take a cross-country, stop at every attraction and forgotten track, kind of road trip. I love the sound of the tires thrumming across the pavement, the look of the road as it recedes into the distance.
I remember my last day with you. We took a drive along the coast. The air smelled of salt and brine, and I could see the spot where the sky met the sea. It was warm, but a cool breeze drifted through the car as we drove, faster and faster, towards nowhere in particular. I had my hand out the window, my whole arm really, and I let it float on the wind like I remember doing as a child. It was peaceful and perfect.
I loved that feeling. You know, driving but not caring or knowing where you’ll end up. That’s the kind of road trip I want to take. It’s sad that people can’t do those kinds of things. Only the rich or well-prepared, I guess. I can’t afford to just leave my job for a month to drive off into the sunset, as they say. But, oh how I want to!
You know that type of freedom. I’ve never felt it quite like that before. When I came to you, that was the first freedom I had ever truly experienced. You said come, so I hopped that horrific bus and spent three days and 3000 miles just to see you. I did it because I could, because I wanted to, and because I had no one or nothing to stop me. I want the feel that way again. With nothing to hold me back.
Driving. A road trip. Yeah, that’s what I wish I could do. Drive until I see the Atlantic Ocean and can stick my toes in the white Florida sand.