The little car careens down Kentucky hillsides, all lush, billowing greens and patient corn until the Nashville skyline appears from below a ridge. The big city annoys you, with its criss-crossing highways and pretentious skyscraper shadows. Were you not meant to sit in solitude under the stars? The server at the high-end restaurant in a newly uncovered neighborhood asks where you are from, and the words New York sound foreign on your tongue, like when someone asks where you are from and you tell them the city where you grew up. I am from nowhere, now; I am from everywhere.
In the middle of the night, I lie awake, unable to sleep despite my best attempts. Toss and turn, cursing the late meal, the last drink, the restless mind, until I realize: here is the silence I was asking for, here is a moment to simply sit in the marvel of my steps. Did bartender at the dive bar not cut most of the drinks from your tab? The road is still with you, in all the shapes it may take.
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