I read/wrote this waaaay back in the day (okay, a year ago) when I had another outlet for posting blogs...but I gave up on that site. I valued this article too much to give it up and just found the blog on my parents' computer (since I've spending tons of time here)! I thought it appropriate for now since I've been thinking a lot about how the future is affected by choices we make today. And also because I've actually been driving this past week. (It's a rare occurrence, my friends).
From the New York Times:
"[I]t seems to me that my generation was defined by the open road, and the accompanying hope that a promise lay at the end of it. The almost trance-like experience of driving down the soft tunnel of a dark highway at night was something I relished. At most, there would be the distant red lights of a car far ahead, and always the murmur of the glowing radio, the hiss of the tires and, at a certain speed on narrower roads, the fizzing past of telephone poles with their rhythmic whiplash.
Late at night, in most places I knew, there was almost no traffic and driving, a meditative activity, could cast a spell. Behind the wheel, gliding along, I was keenly aware of being an American in America, on a road that was also metaphorical, making my way through life, unhindered, developing ideas, making decisions, liberated by the flight through this darkness and silence. With less light pollution, the night sky was different, too — starrier, more daunting, more beautiful..." - Paul Theroux, New York Times, 12/31/06.
Finding this was completely an accident, and it would've knocked me off my feet, had I been standing. I've never heard a night drive described in a more articulate, beautiful way: "Behind the wheel, gliding along, I was keenly aware of being an American in America, on a road that was also metaphorical, making my way through life, unhindered, developing ideas, making decisions, liberated by the flight through this darkness and silence."
I am keenly aware of being an American in America. I am aware of it when I open the newspaper, homepage, whatever it be, and read of 30 fatalities resulting from a suicide bombing in Iraq, Israel, Afghanistan, what have you. I am aware when I open the paper to read a remarkably similar story the next day. And I am aware as they continue counting deaths of those Americans not lucky enough to be in America.
There are two halves to a life. There is the half of the individual, his story, his triumphs, his sorrows. From the memorable to the forgettable, and all that we wish could be forgettable, all things personally related to him are covered. It is the way he spends his time, who he spends it with, and where the time is spent. It is his dreams, his goals, his deepest thoughts and fears. His convictions. But most of all, it is him. How he defines himself, casting a shadow on other unnecessaries.
And then there is the half of the world. Sometimes, many times, this half is left behind. Some people would like to think that Iraq and its problems don't exist, or that all is well in __________. But then when it is acknowledged, where to begin? Africa, the Middle East, Asia, South America, all places have their own unique stories. And America too.
I find refuge in Theroux's words, finding hope in the idea that I, too, can be "liberated by the flight through this darkness and silence." To find escape from the collision of these worlds, and to relish in the simple beauty of the night.
