Plucky Thoughtfullness

Staying busy

The speedometer reads 133.
One hand on the steering wheel, the fourth cigarette in the other.
Another attempt to turn up the music - though even at full volume, it can't drown the thoughts buzzing in my head.
They pound against my skull like the bass against the car's bodywork.

Where I'm going this time doesn't matter anymore.
"Keep yourself busy", because then it doesn't hurt as much.
And it works amazingly well.
At least for the moment, maybe for two.

But it's the little moments in between that hit you completely unexpected and with such force, as if you were standing in the middle of a road with your arms outstretched waiting for the next car.
It's the little moments between being busy that throw you off your carefully constructed track, pull the ground from under your feet, and take away the air to breathe.
It's the moments that just can't be avoided. They catch up with you unrelenting, like the next car you're waiting for on this road with your arms outstretched.
So also now.
I really thought everything was fine.
I thought I could handle it.
But no matter how hard I try, it catches up with me again. The moment between being busy. Unbraked, it comes - crushing me like the heaviest truck I've ever seen. It's squeezing all the oxygen out of my lungs and it must be my ribs, broken from the impact, drilling into my heart, because the pain in my chest is almost unbearable.

But I'm not standing in the street.
And there's no truck that ran me over.
Nor is my heart pierced by ribs.

I'm just sitting in the car.
The streetlights illuminate my trembling hands at regular intervals, clutching the steering wheel so tightly as if it could dissolve into thin air at any moment. Just like you did.
It's not broken ribs, it's thoughts of you, creeping into my heart, reopening old cracks, letting almost heald wounds bleed again.

And as I try to focus on driving, the road feels endless.
I don't remember when it began or how long I've been on it, but right now I'm sure it'll never end.
And I wonder, what if it's the same with you? What if there's just no end? What if I have to drive on this road forever? The constantly sinking fuel gauge, the murmuring of my thoughts to the beat of the music and the smoke in my lungs as the only companions.

No turns in sight.
No other human soul on this road.
No signs, no traffic lights, no civilisation.
No hope.

Just the guideposts, appearing at regular intervals, reminding me that somehow I seem to be moving forward, keeping me from loosing my orientation and to straying from the safe road.
But how am I supposed to orient myself when the only direction I know leads to you and where am I supposed to be safe if not in your arms?
Tell me which destination to type into my navigator if you're not there waiting for me.
How many more songs must I put on hold before I forget the sound of you singing along?

You tell me you feel the same. And I want to believe you.
But the difference between you and me is this: I was just a stop on your journey - a small, cozy village. Nice enough for a vacation, but not enough to stay.
You wandered through every single one of my winding alleys, leaving your footprints everywhere and carving your name into tree trunks and wooden benches.
And I wonder if you were aware of that.

I was your vacation spot.
And you're my damn world map.