The Road Trip

I am driving through Wyoming in ecstasy. I am overwhelmed with joy and beauty. This place is so grand and untouched (ignoring the occasional oil drilling rig) and I alone am witness to this moment in time and space. Me and whoever was driving the sedan going the other direction. Some minutes pass, maybe ten. Me and whoever was driving that Semi-truck going the other direction. Are they seeing what I'm seeing, what I saw? No, it doesn't matter. On this trip I have the privilege of being concerned with no one else, responsible for no one else. Being alone is freedom. I smile and drive and continue to look around, speechless.

I have parked in downtown Salinas looking for something to do. It is a beautiful day and I am unhappy. I know that I stopped in this place because John Steinbeck was born here and stopped here in his own travels. It is a depressing town. I walk up and down the block, get back in my car, get back on the highway heading south. I call my sister who doesn't answer. I call my mom who doesn't answer. I start crying and then stop when I become bored of crying. I know happiness will return to me, but not today. Today, being alone is lonely.