New Hamshire Gone South

When I was fifteen I was obsessed with trying to figure out if I liked certain things, or if I liked to like those things. This is not en efficient way of thinking, but I always go back to the conundrum when I’m alone, in the dark, on windy roads. This time it’s in New Hampshire. Or, really, Maine first and then New Hampshire. My directions don’t make sense, it’s pitch black, snowing, and I forgot a map. The last time I did this was in South Africa and though the travel took three times as long and I was driving on the other side of the road, this trip is now starting to feel the same.

Maybe all we need to encourage reflection is some time in the dark on windy roads. Maybe this is how we find ourselves in modern day. Invent an objective. Drive to it? Is it the same as earning it with human power? Can it be? My drive was not anything important. I contemplated if travel was worth it, why I do it, what it means to be alone with no one waiting for you on either end of a journey, and why I keep making sure I have exactly all of these things line up so often. What I know is that I arrived in North Conway pleased with myself.  As if finding a major city in New Hampshire was some sort of achievement. What if the beauty of over-thinking is that you get some personal success in the end? Then I suppose I, and all of my writing friends, are going to be OK.