The maps spread out in front of us, comparing and contrasting themselves, calculating hours under our hands and gauging points of interest along the route. The truth is on the road you don't know what you want to see until you see it. The stars were muted tonight, unwilling to leap to their deaths for my flights of fancy, how cruel reality when the fairy tale will not budge. If we drive the southern route it'll take us ages to get across the mountains. I wonder what I'm running back to. They say fall has arrived in New York, they say parking is a nightmare.
But I have nightmares all the time, and wouldn't I rather go through them with an escape plan? The entire world has been a nightmare lately, so what harm can a little adventure do? The other night while lost in the dark, an entire new novel outlined itself against the back of my eyelid. This is the magic of the road, or of words, or of the stars. I run back to New York because I miss it while I'm away, because I am not whole outside of its borders. The rest works itself out because you make it.
In the midst of this nightmare, we have to fight to dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment