Writing

Back when I went to visit the Roc, I wrote a bunch in my little almost-moleskine with my hipster kid fountain pen. This is one of those.


Driving at night, you and the darkness become friends. You grow to recognize the different shades of dark: the almost black road ahead, broken by the intermittent flashes of reflectors; the muffled dark of the trees, every so often defining itself in the shape of a branch or a spray of spiky pine; the dark of the sky, a little lighter, broken by twinkling stars.

And then, out of the darkness, a puddle of light. Bright, jarring in its sudden intensity. A bevy of streetlights and signs, so many that your brain stutters for a second before it is all gone again, fading in the mirror behind you. Then it’s gone entirely and the world is a little calmer.

The radio fuzzes and settles, humming lullabies into your little island of dashboard lights and rushing wind.

Another car creeps up out of the night and momentarily you are no longer alone. The night has produced another island and as you pass there is a short-lived sense of companionship before you continue on into the darkness, alone again.

The music falters and regains its strength, singing sweetly comforting words, and the dashboard lights blaze on. Above, there is a fleeting streak in the sky.

Blink and you missed it.

Make a wish.

Keep driving.