He sits in the room, pondering the road in front of him, reflecting on the stretch of road he'd just passed, and oddly feeling off-kilter. Maybe it was in the concert the previous evening, where Maurice Ravel's Bolero kept winding and repeating the melody over and over again, bouncing between instruments and continually kept crescendoing until he was at the edge of his seat and couldn't take any more (until the key change, anyway). Maybe it was the appreciation of his senior friends who happened to be solo figures throughout the concert (it was Senior Solo Night after all). Maybe it was the after-concert party in town with various musician friends, or perhaps that pizza at 1:30 AM. Maybe it was realization of the shift from sports and games as his favorite social pastime to concerts (he had been to a lot over the past few months).
What kind of road is it? No matter, it is always in uncharted territory, much like the roads in west Texas that lead you further west than you'd ever been before. And yet through this unfamiliarity, it suddenly seems more familiar than any road 100-200 miles back. In a time when alarm clocks and suits rule the world, he has a choice. He can ponder the life of yesteryear, when T-shirts, sweatpants and ballcaps were in style, as well as ignoring alarm clocks till the cows come home. He ponders his friends and acquaintances, and feels in greater control in terms of whom to re-acquaint and whom not to re-acquaint.
Interstates are the best kinds of roads. Especially in the middle of nowhere, where there's like an exit ramp every 10-15 miles. You don't have to worry about oncoming traffic, and chances are traffic is light (this would include those authority turnaround lanes as well). Which means you can hit the gas pedal without too much worry. There is a picture of an 80-mph sign on the door. It can remind of good times; it can also remind of dreams. It can remind of space, where there is too often a lack thereof.
But the journey can be hypnotizing, just like Ravel's Bolero, in which the melody cycles around for 9 1/2 turns. You know the feeling when you're heading west at sunset. You want to block the sun out, but at the same time its orange glow induces you to follow it, to try to keep up.
At some point you realize it's hopeless. The sun moves too fast; it is soon beyond the horizon. And at night the interstate speed limit in west Texas is 65 mph, just like the rest of the state.
He's come to a possible conclusion for his wandering: he's gotten away from the Lord perhaps. After all, a week chock full of work will do that. Without reassurance from God himself it is hard to willfully trust one's own life. It leads to the whole questioning process. What the hell is this road? It's probably nameless. Most roads are, especially once you get away from the cities.
I feel like I'm on a road trip as well. Right now, even though I'm clearly inside a building of some sort, typing this on a desktop computer that would be very cumbersome to manage while in a moving vehicle. I feel like I'm waiting for something as well. This is the first time in many years that I've felt like I needed to return to Chicago. Yes, I've been sick of the whole region for the last few years, but at the same time I feel a bit drawn to it again. Perhaps it's the end of the semester (May 21). But perhaps it is a date years down the line. After all, May 21 can signal an end or a beginning. And it feels like a beginning, both fortunate and unfortunate.