I really love and hate driving alone.  Sometimes it's the best feeling in the world to cruise through the night on some twisty road high above the rest of the world.  Other times it's just the worst feeling in the world, like an automotive equivalent of the walk of shame where you feel isolated from the rest of the world in some steel cage.  It's moments like that where I start to wonder if I'm really alive; it's moments like that where I feel like a tree falling down in a forest with nobody around to hear.  Did I make a sound?  Did I ever really exist?

Two days ago, I was driving home from Redondo Beach.  My cell phone was chirping that its battery was about to die.  The needle on my fuel gauge was past empty.  I was tired to the point of being a waking zombie.  To top it all off, I was lost.  In the middle of this all, I was struck by a feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on.  It was all the feelings that have been inside me for a while now, surfacing at the same time.  Disappointment and loneliness lingered as hope filled my heart and I filled my gas tank.

Last night, I was driving home from Santa Monica, still a little stoned, when I hit a cat.  My eyes immediately welled up with tears.  I don't know if it could have been avoided had I been more sober, but I think I'm done with getting high for a while.

When I get high, I just want to hold somebody.  We were sitting on the beach, staring at the moonlight reflected off the water.  It was so bright, she said it was almost like it was really day, seen through a filter.  The moon, she said, was like a hole in the sky where we could see the day peak through.  We imagined a ladder, 2 miles long, stretching all the way to the hole, and children started climbing out.  All this, while I was wondering how nice it would be to hold her next to me.

Fuck, I think I'll just go drive it off tonight.  There's gotta be a mountain out there high enough to fly me away from all this.