The grass is coated in frost, and stratus clouds layer the calm blue sky. Today is December 6: 27 days from my departure. In no time, I’ll be blogging from Missouri, Denver, San Francisco, and then Los Angeles. I will be like Jack Kerouac in On The Road, but unfortunately, devoid of any wingman, like Neil Cassidy, accompanying me on this wild ride. Nevertheless, it holds weight in regards to my individualism–grasping the steering wheel with my own bare hands and pointing the nose of the car in whichever direction I choose.
A majority of people strive to be viewed as their own unique individual–whether it’s in their outward appearance, independent financial status, or their opposing tastes. Most people want to be their own man. Our ego, DNA structure, or soul might be the spark which ignites this burning desire. I am at the stage where I am truly testing my own words. It goes way beyond just living on my own (I’ve done that before), it’s more about setting out to live in one’s own distinct way and materializing that lifestyle.
I have copious uncertainty ahead of me, in turn, presents excitement along with a touch of anxiety. I could either skyrocket or crumble. Regardless of the outcome, I am attempting to fly, a courageous feat not many men dare to partake in.
Interstate 80 steadily leads through vast open land of nothingness; especially from Ohio to Nebraska, the drive can feel lonely and everlasting. Tractor-trailers haul by, rest-stops appear bleak, and the small towns are desolate. One can only second-guess why he ever strapped himself in for a cross-country drive. Then, when you’re fiddling with the volume knob or cracking your window open in order to wake-up, a glimpse of the Rockies poke out ahead. The highway proceeds to be more scenic. Like most worthwhile things, it just takes time.