Sitting in a Hot Car / Warm Sunday Drive

I’m sitting in my hot car with a window down and a cheap excuse for a latte in my hand that coffee snobs would scoff at. I’ve been training with people decades ahead of me, who somehow haven’t given up on me yet despite my failures, and I’m tired in a good way, and I’m still sweating, and I’m disappointed in my weak progress but also kind of glad I haven’t quit yet, I guess. My guts are complaining, and I’ve got shitty music in my ears that most would hate but apparently some others out there, somewhere, actually like too, if the global play counts displayed are to be believed. One of the songs is about wanting to take one’s own life — but by the end of the track, they’re singing about how they want to live now, and don’t want to die anymore. They titled the track just a 1-800 suicide hotline number. It’s been performed by different artists, and this one version has been played a total of over 2 million times. I wonder how many of those 2 million plays may have saved a life. I wonder how many weren’t enough.

We’re all so spread out. How far apart have those 2 million listens been from each other?

I’m trying to figure out what I need to scream into the world today. I don’t want to go home. I’m restless. I want to drive. I want to get away from everywhere I don’t belong but it feels like I’d be just driving forever. Rather, I guess I’d be driving until I’m out of gas.

That’s it. I’m running out of gas. What a weak metaphor… “I’m burning gas faster than I can refill the tank.”

Maybe I’ll drive out to where I came of age, where my parents love me, and where I’m always welcome. Even there, there are misunderstandings, but there are birds and trees and space, and that feeling of coming home. I should appreciate it while I have it. One day it’ll be gone — and then where will I go on days like today? This is one of many things that make the future so dreadfully frightening.

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June 8, 2025