it is raining and you are watching the water race itself down your windowpane. in five or ten minutes, you’re gonna have to be a person again. right now you are somewhere else: only passing scenery, only internal, only distant. the car will eventually stop and everything will settle hard around your shoulders again, but for now, you have a small reprieve.
your friend asks why you’re obsessed with road trips, even if they don’t go anywhere. you don’t know how to explain that feeling of being apart from your own body, and it’s probably pretty weird anyway. you say, it’s the journey, not the destination, and she laughs. but it is, isn’t it? it’s about being somewhere apart, somewhere that you are suspended from yourself, somewhere you are always in motion. there isn’t a word for this, not that you know of. the closest you have found is peace.
in five or ten minutes, you’ll get out and sling on your backpack and your coat and remember the homework you didn’t do. but right now, in this moment, you are free.