Driving is its own kind of magic, the kind of magic that you don’t find easy anymore; it’s solitude, and the complete absence of everything. You have no choice but to be absent when you drive, and as long as you know where you’re going, and are familiar with the road (and the car) driving couldn’t be easier.

I like thinking. I don’t do that nearly as much anymore. I suppose that’s why I love traveling and I suppose I also like the feeling that I’m going somewhere – doing something. It’s tangible and it’s easy to quantify, just count the steps.

Driving gives you a respite from yourself and all the must-does. The nag in your head stays quiet for a while. Sometimes you ponder the past, other times the future (but not nearly as often). Sometimes you think up stories or just watching the trees and the car swear a bit to the left if the trees is on the left and on the right if the trees are on the right. You’d never hit a car though, although you think about. Nothing would be easier. Then you consider the consequences, the aftermath. Often you survive the crash and then stuff happens in your head and you’re gone. The magic happens.

The radio is on, for the most part, and strangers sing and laugh in your ear. Sometimes you sing along. I sound good as long as I don’t turn down the volume. The raspy sound of my voice, the tone deafness. I was just on kiddy wheels all along, borrowing their power.

I wonder what happen when we have self-driving cars… I swear humanity will go to hell then. The last sanctuary bulldozed by progress. When will we regress?

I wonder if it was the same way when people got cellphones. It used to be that one could escape on a bus or traveling on a train. Of course, they always had the option to read or play on the gameboy. I don’t think it was the same.

Writing and driving is kinda similar, in a way. They are both magic; you get lost in what you do. Though, it’s more peaceful driving, I think. An activity that is destroying the earth. Though, death is nature too, I suppose.