not one but two worlds
It was early in the winter morning. In other words, it was quiet, dark, and cold. He felt the urge to be on the road. What else could he do? He wanted to feel a bit of warmth inside him. His car was going to be that warm corner in the outside world, and if only he had a button to generate some warmth within himself.
He was on the highway, unable to see far ahead. Darkness and loneliness, his companions, were with him. Like penguins at the pole, they had to stay even closer together.
The road was one of those places where he could spend time with loneliness. He could be both alone and not alone at the same time. He wasn’t the only one on the road. He liked the feeling of being part of something. Could he make a living as a driver? The idea was growing on him. It seemed almost perfect for him and his companions. He could carry warmth with him.
His mind was as busy as the highway at this hour. He thought about his relationship with loneliness. Could it be better? He could stand up to it, could enjoy its company more than ever. Sometimes, he even missed it more than others.
It was an empty, foggy road. What else could happen? Then something appeared. Something crushed him—a thought. It wasn’t one world, but two worlds he had to cross. He repeated it a few times, like someone trying to move a heavy load. With each repetition, he felt more crushed. He felt lonelier than ever. It felt heavy, but now it was warm enough. He started crying.
It was warm again. He felt warm again. Tears were the sign. He cried among the other drivers. How comfortable. How understanding they were. That’s how it was. Everyone was in their vehicle. He wanted to talk to them, to reach out to them. But how could he? How? There were two vehicles between them that he had to cross. Before reaching the other vehicles, he had to leave his own.
What could be worse? Others had to do the same. Who would leave their vehicle to reach out to him? The sun wasn’t going to shine today.
He thought of his other companions—the ones he found in books. He realized that was another place where he could be alone with others. Those friends, unlike the ones on the road, were underground. In that moment, he understood that they traveled both their own worlds and his. They reached out to him. They were dead now. He started crying again.
Driving could also happen without a known destination. He didn’t particularly seek loneliness; he just wanted to be himself. Loneliness became the road leading him to himself. He did not know that his heart wanted to feel warm as much as his body.
This was what he traveled.
This was what he was delivered.