N. Pham- Desperate Driving

N. PHAM
Desperate Driving


I stare blankly out the windows looking at scenes I've never seen before, that don't necessarily mean anything to me, that don't register in my mind and heart and soul.  Their stories, their emotions and thoughts and whispers are there and present in each broken down house, slow moving train, well kept lawn and wide open field.  Yet none of their stories are known to me- just scenes I've never seen before, that don't necessarily mean anything to me, that don't register in my mind and heart and soul. 


My bus is every minute driving further and further away from you and Sweet Briar and the life I so desperately want to hang on to.  As I head north I pray north is the same as up when you are at the bottom of a lake tangled in yards of seaweed disguised as arms and hands of all the people you wish would love you but don't. 


As I pass these scenes I've never seen before, that don't necessarily mean anything to me, that don't register in my mind and heart and soul, I look back at my own reflection in the window.  My hang touches my eyelid and the face staring back mimics my movements but without knowing why the contact between the skin over my eyes and that of my index finger existed or why it was taken away so quickly.  That face in the window is practically a stranger whose mind and heart and soul are untouchable to me.  


With every minute this bus heads more north further and further away from you and Sweet Briar and the life I so desperately want to hang on to.  The road tips NW and slides a bit NE again and I stare at scenes I've never seen before, that don't necessarily mean anything to me, that don't register in my mind and heart and soul.


But as the road tips to the NW and slides to the NE, it still continues to drive more north further and further away from you and Sweet Briar and the life I so very desperately am trying to hang on to, I now see a different face in the reflection of the window. And when my forefinger touches my eye lid, the reflection stares back at me and blinks with a strong sense of boredom and bewilderment. 


I stare back. and just as my mind and heart and soul registers a connection in that face in the reflection as a scene that I've seen before, that might possibly mean something to me, that touches my mind and heart and soul as real as I touched my forefinger to my eyelid, that face in the reflection looks away.


And then disappears.  And I drive north. And I stare out the window, blinking with a strong sense of boredom and bewilderment at scenes that I've never seen before, that don't necessarily mean anything to me, that don't register in my mind and heart and soul. 


As the road tips NW and bends NE and continues to head more and more north, further and further away from you and Sweet Briar and the life I so very, very, desperately am trying to hang on to, I notice in the reflection of the window the disguise that was there all along.  Those arms and hands of all the people I so desperately wish would love me but don't, are not truly the arms and hands of you and Sweet Briar and the life I was so desperately trying to hang on to, but seaweed at the bottom of the lake.  


As I drive more and more north, further and further away from that life, that school, that love, I can't tell if I am going up or if I am tipping to the side or bending to the opposite diagonal.  


And as I stare at those scenes that I've never seen before, that don't necessarily mean anything to me, that don't register my mind and heart and soul, I touch my forefinger to my eye lid and wipe away a fresh water tear.


The reflection in the window does not mock my movements. It is not even there.  Instead it is at the bottom of the lake with that disguise, with that life, with that school. With that love. 


And I am driving north.