The Road Between Here and There

You're on a long stretch of winding road, in the middle of a valley of red sand. The sky directly above you is a deep blue, and further on toward the horizon it fades gradually to a pale yellow. The mountains, in the light of the setting sun, have developed deep shadows, like wrinkles, making them look their age.

You've driven this stretch of road before, on your way between two cities. You've driven this road so many times, in fact, that to you feel almost as much at home on the road as you do in the municipalities you are driving to or from. You foresee every turn before it comes into view. You know how fast you can make that turn; you are, after all, a fast driver.

You anticipate the change in scenery, as the road goes from forest, to desert, to forest again, and back to desert depending on your destination. You know when to take your eyes off the road to look out the window, in order to catch that sweeping desert view, with the road that goes off into the distance as far as the eye can see. You know when to turn your eyes back again, in order to make the next turn safely.

You've calculated the fifteen minute mark when you've almost reached either city. You know when you'll call your friends and family to tell them you made it safe. You've timed the perfect place to call them on the road if they're supposed to meet you there. You call them at the point when you'll both arrive less than five minutes apart. But this timing differs depending on the person, their habits. You've timed it all perfectly, because you know this road that well. And when you finally arrive in either town, in the forest or the desert, in either state, you immediately feel the need to get on the road again, because the place you've arrived to doesn't provide the relief; doesn't feel like home; doesn't feel complete. You don't really want to be here.