Trains, Planes, and Those Fast Autos.

I have an inner need to be a hitchhiker – to the cargo trucks & pickups that carried mangoes in the summertime.
Being brought somewhere unknown was exciting, but scary. It was a quiet solemn unravel to the plains that covered the lands heightened by the trek.

And maybe a real hone to the thought was made responsible by the whole whoddunnit mysteries of childhood: Nancy Drew, hardy boys, Sherlock Holmes, Scooby Doo – but mostly a solitary version of ending up alive in those Choose Your Own Adventure books. This made the whole understanding of where the culprit lies and what was the getaway vehicle painted a life’s experience of running when evil deed was done to, and escapism ensues instead of facing the control of the adventure of your life. Hopefully, there are people who can turn those pages and make the valuation for your do-over re-write & the 15-bucks of a book should’ve been shot towards the happier meal that plans the meetup more intentionally. Not a regrettable read, just that it contained less of a map of life & leads you the learning that is someone else’s 15-bucks of a fake scenario. That’s a movie, popcorn and pizza.

So on that plane, there could be thousands of real passengers of thought influenced & inspired, where would that incline them towards – the real danger is to not endanger them to look past their capacity and make a cheap pass at promoting your own agendas, maybe the objectivity of being taken away and mobile, moving towards something at a pace all to your own, will more or less be a good gauge of where this brings them overall? Maybe the trains carry as far, as fast and route-wise, we are rooted to carry out all the missions – like filling out the life prescriptions that aim to cure perceived ails of a life not by your own hand?

There are no 5-cent definitive guides, no perl-y scripts of wisdom that translate scrolls invisible, there are no vintage screen-printed pinup posters that remind you to live that life or this life, one that you are meant to have, if that exists – and there are no pants charming enough that gets better as it’s worn. (Wait, I think there are actually my beat up Girbauds and Evisus that hover in my favourites trunk).

Advisory boards or not, listen to your mother and list everything down, o listless ones. Mine kept a diary, smoked her cigarettes, cooked her specialty stews, and told the tales that ushered me to plan, play my checkers, & that keeping to the road kept most wary is best.