On the Road

There’s a map sitting on top of the passenger seat, so if I really had to, I can figure out what town I’m in. But I don’t want to.

There are better ways to define the place where I find myself than through the banality of naming it.

For starters, I can see the ocean and despite the chilly wind, I’ve rolled down the windows so I can hear the waves. Ahead of me is the promise and certainty of a sunrise over an endless expanse of water. Behind me, the tyrannical “to do” list and the sense of my own importance.

I am alone, save for my thoughts and the crooners I brought for company: Sinatra, Bublé, Jones, Coltrane, Fitzgerald. To them I owe the languidness of my mood as I drive, unrushed, to my final destination: no place in particular.

I’ll recognize it when I get there: it is where “I should be” recedes long enough for me to be reacquainted with “I am.”