I think of my life as a road.
I know — not the most original metaphor. But still, it fits. Maybe too well.
Some days, it’s American — a long stretch of highway, sun-blurred and humming. I imagine myself in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under the other, windows down, everything behind me burning just softly enough not to look back.
Other days, it’s Italian — a road that curves through Tuscan hills, golden and fragrant and full of half-remembered warmth. The kind of road you slow down on. The kind that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you could stay a while.
Then it turns German — sharp, orderly, fast. A part of me that craved precision, progress, a route that made sense. I followed the rules there. I moved quickly, like that might save me.
But the Swiss roads were different — high, lonely, clean. The air so crisp it tasted like childhood. That’s where I paused. That’s where the world felt far enough away that I could almost hear my own breath again.
Some roads run by the sea — gentle, sighing, salt-wet. I remember the kind of peace that smells like seafoam and sunscreen.
Some roads go straight through water — flooded, unsure, shimmering with sky. You step anyway. You don't know why.
Some roads are made of sand. They shift underfoot. You lose the path. You find it again.
Or maybe you just start walking in a new direction.
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