It’s 3:00 in the morning and I got out of bed to write this because it hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe that’s because it’s 3:00 in the morning and I’m half asleep. Maybe tomorrow I look back on this and I can’t figure out what the significance is, or what it even means.
— § —
Thing is, the phrase I came to, rolling over half asleep with visions of people and places past in my mind is this:
I always seem to end up on the side roads, the detours.
I don’t think another reflection has ever crossed my mind that feels (at least at this moment) as though it so perfectly encapsulates my life.
All these places, and things, and stories, and people. Stuff I’ve done, applause I’ve had. And for what?
Very little of it is still around. I have done thing after thing, been to place after place, but all of it feels like legend now because none of it was destined to stay around—or alternatively I wasn’t destined to stay around it.
I’m still looking for the main road. The road on which I can look back and see where I’ve been and it looks like a path, and look ahead and see where I’m going and it looks like a path.
So many things that have seemed so solid, so important—and that have then evaporated, ultimately become myths more than they are reality.
Did I really know those people? Did I really live in that place? Did I really write those books, do that show, earn that degree, teach those students?
If I’m not careful, it all feels like fiction, like something I dreamed up in a fevered imagination. They were all side roads. I’m still on a side road, I lament that all the time.
Where’s the main road?