Some people say that night is a dark time, but not me. I see the forgiving reflections off the traffic signs. I see the bold streetlights, like a lighthouse in the sea, casting their light for my sole benefit. I see the glimmers of the moon. I see the stars.
The mix CD I’ve played for myself four dozen times again gets to my favorite song. The voice washes over me, and the crescendos of sound smooth my mind. I sing along, somehow still not knowing the words, my mouth producing the sounds but not the language.
I lose track of distance. How far have I traveled in this moment of bliss? Has my brain prevailed amidst its own distraction? I wake to check my surroundings. I’m that much closer to home but, for some reason, tonight I don’t want to stop driving. I guess I don’t want this feeling to end.
Forty-five miles an hour is the worst speed to travel. My foot begs for sixty, my mind cautions forty. How many times have I driven this same route unaware of the limit, never once seeking out the law’s verdict? I shiver as I worry about my risk.
My mood degrades rapidly as my least favorite song on the album begins. I could skip it with a brief click of my finger, but I don’t. I take pity and let it play its notes, devoid of emotion, vanquished of soul. Have I gained anything for giving it its three minutes of time? Has my self-discipline increased, has my character emerged victorious? Or have I, in my infinitely insignificant choice, merely caused myself a glimpse of grief for no purpose but my own punishment?
The streets grew darker now, as I approached my house. Were it not but for my lack of adventure, my fear of the unknown, I might have pushed my car forward down the straight streets that night, missing my turn to abandon my goal and start another. But I didn’t. I slid into my driveway, released the key to my hand, and opened the door to the freezing wind.
