I drive to the beach often to not think. Ever since I was a child, I found serenity in a moving vehicle. I found myself unwilling to go home after dining alone, so I drive.
My destination today is Point Dume. I then decided I don’t want to drive so far. When that is the case, I settle myself somewhere below the mountains and next to the freeway. The waves crash even slower and the cars just can’t seem to stop. I try to focus on the cold night breeze only to find my body shaken up by a speeding car. The vibration ripples outwards, as if a force would almost thrust me into the ocean itself. There are frogs and crickets tonight. I’ve actually never heard a frog over here. He almost sounds like he’s inside my pocket, waiting to jump out and begin speaking in our tongue.
I have been afraid to write as of late. What began as a small distracted break began to feel like I’ve never known a word in the English language. What do I really have to say when I am even bored by my own words? So I try, because otherwise, I would lose all of it. I am trying now, by telling you the tales of a freeway frequented. I am always trying, by driving on the same highway for answers that feel more melancholic than the last.
shari wei 