| to drive (verb) | /kɔ̃dɥiʀ/
Those long, beloved American highways have always been one of the strange joys I relish upon returning home. Those roads stretch to infinity, representing limitless possibilities to young and roving argonauts. Although those same roads become disorienting and abysmal by night, when I’m driving the length of Tennessee with only my headlights and stardust to guide me home, I find these drives strangely therapeutic. They clear my mind in ways that sedentary meditation never could. Perhaps it’s that adventurer’s blood that courses, boiling, through my veins, never allowing me to stay still for long. My mind races as quickly as I find myself scurrying across continents.
But as summer draws to a close, I find myself haunted by those same fears and insecurities that always appear before I embark on a new adventure. Am I resilient? I am. Am I foolish to abandon my relationships here in pursuit of a life abroad? Maybe. I don’t know a soul in this strange city in a foreign country. Will I find a community to keep me sane during those first, nauseating bouts of homesickness? Or will I be terrified and alone in an empty hotel room? I have no answers, but I keep moving. I wander lonely roads to silence my mind. And I think to myself: Perhaps one day, I will pack my car with books and my dog, and I will drive away, singing, Goodbye, forever, goodbye, goodbye.