I would like to point out that I did in fact write yesterday, but since it was just an "I'm exhausted" excuse so I did not share it with the world.
I spend a lot of time on the road, and definitely not in the romanticized Jack Kerouac kind of way, in the "holy shit I can not look at this part of route 17 ever again" kind of way. Yet, I love my commute, sure I could do with the extra sleep or the shorter gas mileage that living close would grant me, but it gives me time when I'm by myself and there's no chance of me being not by myself. It is here where I have the most intense arguments with myself, often about morality, sometimes about politics, but almost always about art. I consider this blog, I consider plans I have for the future, I consider the fact that I am usually not acting on those plans. I love those rides because I can digest my day. Once someone told me to give myself the time to feel stuff, but to put a limit on that time, so if I need to feel stuff I give myself my car ride home (I do a book or a podcast on the way to work). They aren't always weird meditations on myself and my deepest darkest feelings, I also use them once a week to talk to my brother (so I guess there is a chance they are not always alone), most of the time I use them to write.
I'm not sure what this one is about other than the fact that it's kind of a good thing I like to drive or else I'd be a miserable person always. There are few things less depressing than NJ 17, but moving, even if it's back and forth on a miserable stretch of highway, feels good. I hope I hit home about how ugly Route 17 is, I am not kidding, we can do better than that, we've been to the moon. I digress, I guess I have a thinking spot and it's a boring beige Buick.