For the last week, I’ve been sitting in a car, switching between driver and passenger, my nose in a phone, then a book, pressed up against the window as we navigate mountain roads and float through painted rock and desert.
It was a Friday when we left Los Angeles for Colorado, and there was a tightness in my chest. We sat in traffic for two hours, everyone trying to get somewhere, to get out. It wasn’t until we crested the hill that the congestion dissipated, everyone spreading and slowing down.
Driving calms me. While flying is easier, it doesn’t offer the lull of hours spent on two-lane highways, the sun penetrating your windshield and warming your skin. I fall asleep on planes. When I drive, the earth becomes sharper, my breath deepens and my thoughts become drawn-out, never having a beginning or end.
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I turned 32 in the city I turned 16 and noticed this throughline in my life:
I often feel desperate to flee from the place I’ve worked so hard to try and call home. And I curse this fee…
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