Midnight In A Dark Damp Room

A friend once told me I get lost a lot for someone who's always had a car. I haven't really thought about it until recently, reliving those memories in my head.

There were instances where I'd drive lonely desolate highways in the dead of night and dare myself. I'd turn off the headlights until I lost my nerve. I'd drive off with almost no gas but with money in my pockets, trying to see where the roads will take me. During these runs I've met all sorts of folk from absolutely seedy to unbelievably enchanting.

I know now. I love to get lost because I find bliss in nerve wracking confusion. I was a wreck then, but found a twisted sort of happiness in those fleeting encounters. To settle down is to be responsible, to make decisions. To float in the waves of fate and chance is a wicked form of bliss; control relinquished and thus disappointment free.

I can't really do domestic although I would say I love it too. I need the reckless breakneck frenetic pace of going crazy once in a while. Of stepping out of my car in the dead of traffic and sitting in the rain, heedless of stares. Of gunning the engine without a clear direction to head to. Of walking in the rain while my breath comes out in white tendrils of warmth.

The rains come and go as they do. But they aren't my rains. They aren't my dark brooding clouds. They aren't my melancholy. They aren't mine, and perhaps they never were.
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