I drive through the dark alot now. Watching the lights flick past, like little bursts of life easily extinguished. I drive by whim, mostly. Alone, not accountable to anyone. Not knowing where I'm going, no destination in mind. I spend my nights moving, sorting through my thoughts, quite peacefully in my own company. Often theres no one on the road but me. And often, I drive far enough out of the city to be enveloped in the dark. The time passes quickly, and I wonder how it is that I managed to drive as far as I have. Half way down the North Island. As far as I can go in one direction, and twice as far in another. Far enough to find gravel roads, and hidden logging roads and 'private only' roads. Far enough that it'll take all night to take back home. I don't mind, though. I recognize that this is a new phase, and I indulge in it.
Sometimes I drive quietly. Listening to the sounds of my engine, the wheels on the road, the rain on the windscreen. Sometimes I debate with myself, rage in heated arguments of scenarios and situations that are long since past. Sometimes I play music ridiculously loud and bounce in my seat as I sing along, tapping the beat out against the steering wheel. Sometimes I get lost, unable to backtrack the twists and turns I came down. But it doesn't matter, really. If you keep driving long enough, you'll find your way out eventually.
When I do finally arrive home, no one asks where I've been, and I don't tell, either. And I like that, for now at least, that these trips around the country in the dark are mine, and mine alone. Mini adventures in the night, going places that I'll probably never see in daylight. I'm sure there's a lesson in here, some indication of where I'm at, of what I'm doing. I'm sure there is, but I don't think about it, or let it worry me.
It is what it is, really. And I think that's enough for now. It is what it is. And I'll guess I'll get where I'm going when I get there.