Travel (Short)

I am travelling again, and watching the road streak by, feeling the distance between home and where I am now dissolve away. The car I’m sharing with my friend (who will be unnamed...sometimes reality sets in and I have to protect identities) is cramped, shuddering from the strain of moving forward and smells faintly of vomit. It’s like a small, mobile promise of the party to come. Just a few more hours, one more night of driving and praying that we don’t get pulled over by the cops. She has no driver’s license. We’re illegal here, my partner-in-crime and I; she’s guilty, I’m guilty of smuggling ourselves in this tiny, rave-marked car and for carrying the contraband we’ve got shoved in the backseat next to the worn, old rave equipment. It’s wonderful. Absolutely, refreshingly wonderful.

The complete foolishness of this—the rash thoughtlessness of it is invigorating. It’s stupid, yes, but how stupid can it be? Logic backs my actions…why would I ask for a ride back home? I couldn’t wait any longer—there are plans that are in the making. A protest-rave that needs to be planned and set up…I couldn’t wait, and it would have been wasteful to ask for a plane ride home. No, this way is best. I’ll be more, anyway, and people may see me: secrecy must be abandoned for the plot to come. It’s going to be great.