THE ROAD IS A MIRROR
It shows you who you are, who you aren’t, who you always were, who you never were, and who you could be.
There was a distinct moment when I realized I was no longer relating more to domestic life and all its conveniences. I had no more apprehension about living out of my car or being out in the world, miles away from everything and everyone familiar. It was as if one day I found myself suddenly relating more to the road, and I had found a sort of peace in its transience. A kinship, even. Every day, there it was, waiting for me. No matter where I went, another option, another stretch of highway connecting me to the next piece of experience. And any time, day or night, at any moment, I could jump on its back and go. Or I could stay.
My time on the road had changed me in such subtle shifts, week by week, I hadn’t even noticed until I’d reached a tipping point, and then it hit me: I’d become a nomad.
And everything about that came into focus—how I’d grown accustomed to wearing the most practical clothes and thinking nothing of washing them in streams and using the same biodegradable soap for washing them and my dishes and my hair. How I would cut my toenails in a parking lot and make food on the side of the road or at a rest stop or wherever I was when I got hungry. How I knew when to rest, when to go. How my intuition became louder as I and the world around me became quieter, and how I learned to trust my instinct and not the chatter. Movement became steady, I knew anything could change at any time, and home was wherever I was, and everyone else seemed to be standing still.
It was like I was on a different clock than the rest of America, and the clock was inside me.
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