Three hundred seventy days ago, I began a long drive on a dusty road. That road led away from consistency, from stability, from comfort. It was also the way out of stagnation, of placidity, of normalcy. And it was the road — at least, one road — leading to the Promised Land: a place of satisfaction, of gratification, of enlightenment.
The road — unpaved as it still is — rattled my car, which at times wheezed and hissed and clanged. I’m certain the poor 80s Dacia has many more screws loose than when it left. But looking back at the journey so far, the path looks smoother than it did when driving through it. And along the way, it wound through monkey forests, past ancient temples, between rock cliffs, and along tropical beaches. I’ve tried to snap polaroids of every wonder, but the back seat has piles of them now, and I’m sure some will fly out the window soon. The snapshots are less important than the road itself, maybe.
Looking ahead, the road bends around a hill. I still trust it will get me to Mecca, I can only hope there’s enough gas in the tank to get there. And maybe it’ll be rocky, and less paved, and more shocking. But I’m sure it will have many more spectacles, too. And whatever the case, I’ll be moving forward.
Image by William Warby