Morning skies have a different tone, a different style than night skies. Morning skies are uncertain, ambiguous, both with and without the presence of clouds. They make little sense, bounding you to search them, look and inspect to figure out the day, the time. It’s anticipation that fills the morning skies when you head out in complete unawareness and uncertainty, in doubt, even ignorance. You are lost even before the day commences.
Writers think, or else they wouldn’t write. They look for meaning. They like to analyze and decipher even the smallest things, the smallest ideas. The idea of happiness, the idea of love, the idea of being one with the universe, the idea of falling for someone. Everything, even the morning sky in its utter abstractness, has to be understood.
Understanding requires thought. Thinking requires sanity and devotion to time. Time can drive one insane. Insanity can lead to a deep urge and desire to let go of it all…
And so the writer looks for a distraction, a temporary breather, a stopping point, a comma.
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In a gloomy, reddish sky, I wake to find my body asleep, hard, paralyzed and fatigued. I wake to find myself thinking; it’s the thinking that wakes me up. My day has not started and my mind is already thinking, way ahead of me. I need something, so I grab a sweater, dash for the bathroom, splash my face with water, and there, peace. I am awake now. Already thinking.
The morning skies are a curtain of awakening colors that make you think the day will go by in a breeze. But at some point, you will push the curtain aside to peek at what’s hidden because you are curious. You want to know everything. You want to know what’s out there. You want to see.
I can’t look at the sky and not think of my existence in relation to it. I can’t just look. I have to think about it.
What more can I be?
What is my happiness?
Who am I?
The desire to know and to be understood by everyone who misunderstands is a killer. I am misunderstood and I do not know how to make them, those who don’t understand me, understand. And in thinking, there are always more flaws, more gaps that I find within myself. In thinking, there are more reasons for dissatisfaction, for unhappiness, for misery, for loneliness, for isolation. In thinking, there is danger, fear, all of which constitute an abstract idea.
I get tired of ideas. I get tired of thoughts. I get tired of everyone who misunderstands my silence and my rampant thoughts. I get tired of wanting to understand the abstract, the idea of what makes life. I get tired of waking up, thinking. I get tired and suddenly, I don’t get myself anymore.
At 19, I learned one thing that released me temporarily. I found a breather, a comma in between my train of miscellaneous thoughts, my desperation to lead myself out of ignorance and mediocrity. I learned to take over the wheel.
I had no fear for the first time in my life. I have lived with fear ever since childhood. I have lived with the fear of being misunderstood. I have lived with the fear of being wrong. I have lived fearfully. I learned to let go of that fear. When you take over the wheel, there are too many things to be afraid of. There are people and cars and bikes and a whole world that is rushing by you with time. If you let fear get to you, you will lose control. You have to stop thinking while you drive because the road will show you the way.
The wheel is not just independence. Independence is a broad term. Independence is American life; it’s dreams that are not out of reach. It’s not just power. Writing is power, thinking is power, being who you want to be is power. It’s not just the adrenal running in your blood. It’s more than that. It’s freeing yourself from fears that hold you back. It’s freeing yourself from thoughts, from ideas that are too conceptual to be made concrete.
I love being free for that moment when I hold on to the wheel and let myself go. I let my thoughts disperse into the roads and I make no stops to gather them. I love being free of my fears. I love feeling good, as a driver, not a writer. I love being a driver for that moment, and not a writer who is desperate to figure things out.
Some things are meant to be unwritten. Some things are meant to be unanalyzed. As a writer, you pick at those things because you are stubborn and you have nothing better to do. You pick at your coffee cup and the spoon that stirs the sugar. You pick at your belongings. You pick at yourself. You are too damn stubborn. As a driver, you sit back, simply to drive. You turn up the sound of the music that makes you drive faster. You enjoy a breeze, every second or two. You are at peace with yourself. You don’t criticize the very soul you live in. You don’t expect that soul to understand everything that happens on the road. You don’t pick at your fingernails. You don’t question. You just drive and in that moment, nothing else has to make sense.