Driving Makes Me Happy

On the way to work, I was filled with nervous energy, thinking about the road trip to Columbus. The drive in was good, and I finally got that poem-I-want-to-write feeling once more. I was going to be driving into the night, heading across three states, had a pint of whiskey in the trunk, would be staying with the coolest girl, and was going to see a bunch of writers that I respected, admired, and had the good fortune to call friends.

That morning, driving up the Kennedy, I felt whole and right and full. I had a lot to be thankful for, and I knew it. Deep down, I felt a large pang – at best I can describe it is a sense of unfocused love. As I was driving and the coffee and sunlight were beginning to effect me… I felt an enormous capacity to love someone, anyone, who could return my love back to me. At that time, I felt a great desire, an urge to find someone who could possibly accept all the devotion and loyalty and passion that made me feel like my chest was going to blow apart all over the dash.

As silly as it sounds, I felt giddy, powerful, almost invincible with the sensation (or measurement) of how much I was capable of loving another human being. It was a fantastic feeling – to have the sense that, if someone let me, I could love them with the full capacity of my self, unabashedly and truly.

This is what the mornings do to me, sometimes. This is why I wade through traffic and drive to work.