Driving in the Dark

We only live forever in the lights we make
When we were young we used to say
That you only hear the music when your heart begins to break
Now we are the kids from yesterday.

All I want is a long, aimless drive on dark, nearly deserted streets, blasting my car stereo, so I can sing as loudly as I want until the music replaces the vague longing I feel for something I can't put my finger on with something else that feels a bit more complete. There are no dark, nearly deserted roads in New York City where I can drive 70 miles an hour, few streets that wouldn't require me to stop every few blocks for a red light.

I experienced a brief moment of the pure joy that comes with accelerating unimpeded to 55, 60, 65 miles per hour and beyond accompanied by music and my own out-of-shape voice tonight while driving back home from downtown Brooklyn along the BQE, and I just wanted it to go on forever. For a minute I got to relive countless moments with friends, boyfriends, my brother, moments where we drove and sang and talked together and felt free and alive, moments I thought were in infinite supply, but which turned out ultimately to be limited.

When I almost ran into a parked service truck on my exit ramp, I got an intense flashback of deja vu from when I did the exact same thing in the exact same place seven years ago, when I'd just moved to Brooklyn, when even the cold felt new and exciting, when the sense of endless possibility was ever-present. For a second, everything still felt possible. For just a second, I didn't mind that it was winter. I thought that maybe if I could keep driving, I could make that all stick, but the first traffic light brought the reality of city driving back, so I came home, and instead tried to bring my memories in with me.

I miss you, nearly pitch-black, two-lane back roads of rural Georgia. I miss you all, my shotgun co-pilots, who'd also shamelessly belt along to ridiculously emo songs or rock opera or hair metal or musical theater until we'd sung ourselves hoarse, then who'd accompany me home to lie on the floor and talk about whatever it was that was so important until the wee hours of the night. There was really almost nothing better than us, my car, and a long night ahead.