  Every story begins on the way somewhere.  Between where you are going and where you were. nbsp;
 Sometimes you’ re on the road,  driving.
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 Maybe because driving is therapeutic.
nbsp;
 When you are driving,  you have time to think,  time to reflect.
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 It’ s when you talk to yourself,  or you talk to your companion,  the road.
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 There are times when I like to driving in complete silence,  just the sound of the engine and the tires on the highway.
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 Other times,  I need music.
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 Loud music that I can sing to at the top of my lungs;  because I am angry or full of some exuberant emotion.
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 Then,  there are the times when I’ m sad,  and it’ s hard to see the road through my tears.
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 Driving is perfect for when I’ m sad,  and I want to escape or go somewhere that I feel safe.
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 Just me and the road.  &
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And I love my car,  because it takes me there.
nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;
 I bought a new car a few months ago.
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 I drove away from the car lot singing,  “ I got a new car,  I got a new car…
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 I sang that song for miles.
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 For days.
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 I still thank God a few times a week for that car,  even though I’ m not entirely sure what kind of terms He/ She and I are on these days.
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 Me and the road have a new vehicle for going places,  and we love going places.
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 New places.
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 Old places.
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 I prefer driving fast on smooth pavement,  but I’ m very understanding of occasional potholes and dirt roads.
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 Nobody’ s perfect,  and after all,  variety is supposed to add spice to life.
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 It may even add character.
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 That’ s another reason the road and I get along so well.
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 There is no judgment here.
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 I don’ t have to be anyone but me.
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 My occasional tears don’ t embarrass the road,  and it doesn’ t flinch when I yell out,
 “
Fuck you,  Motherfucker!  at the car that just cut me off.  My windows are down today.
nbsp;
 The wind is blowing my hair all over the place,  a few strands keep getting in my face,
 but I like them there.
nbsp;
 I am leaving the parking lot of the bookstore.
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 An hour and a half in there,  and I walked out bored and empty handed.
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 Hundreds of books,  and nothing I feel like reading.
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 I guess you just have to be in the right mood.
nbsp;
 Besides,  lately,  there probably isn’
t enough room in my head for imagining someone else’ s world.
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 Mine is taking up too much space.
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 I fight the urge to throw my head back and close my eyes,  as I take a deep,  cleansing breath.
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 Mmm,  that felt good.
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 I turn up the car stereo.
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 I love this song.
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 I wonder for a minute what people think when they pass by and see me completely lost in the music.
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 I love driving like this,
 it’
s invigorating.
nbsp;
 Some people start their day with a cup of coffee or the newspaper and cigarette.
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 All I need is the road.
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 Me and the road.  I think it makes sense that my story begins on the road.
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 I have spent more time there than anywhere.  There are always those typical&
nbsp;
questions people love to ask,  when they first meet you.
nbsp;
 First,
 it’
s,
 “
What your name?  and then,
 “
So,  where are you from?  I know that no one really wants an essay answer,
 so I typically,  reply with something like,
 “
Oh,  everywhere…  Well,  maybe I should just start saying that I grew up on the road.
nbsp;
 Yeah,  that’ s where I’ m from.
nbsp;
 I’
m a gypsy,  a nomad.
nbsp;
 It’
s kind of exciting and intriguing.
nbsp;
 After all,  that is where I go when I feel like I don’ t really know where I belong.
nbsp;
 So,
 I’
ll begin my story with the only place that feels like home.
