I love driving for hours through foreign places. I feel a little refreshed. I'm comforted by the fact that no one in these places knows anything about me. I feel like a blank slate, an unwritten book even. I could be completely anyone in this world to any one of these people. They could be the same to me.
All we are together are unmarked souls wandering the earth. All I am is but a ghost driving through these unfamiliar gates that somehow make me feel as if I am something different.
I can't take a hold of these new atmospheres because my mind is elsewhere and I am left vacant. Although everything looks different, inside I am the same.
What's the point in driving around so much when it doesn't change a single thing about anything.
You'll find peace for a fleeting moment only before the old wind flies through you just as it did back home. However home has been such an argued term in my reality lately.
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