If you ever go to a small town for more than an hour or two, you’ll start to feel it. A drag, tugging at your bones, pulling you back, settling your mind in a restive state. A ghost whispering in your ear to just slow down and think for a second, take that deep breath, drive at or below the speed limit.
I’m currently in one of those small towns and it’s starting to drive me insane. Not the town itself, but more the desire to be somewhere else. Similar to school as a kid, where every hour seemed to last forever because there were so many places you’d rather be and so many things you’d rather be doing instead. Here, I don’t control my own destiny, and combining that with the glacial pace of things, my frenetic mind is falling to piece.
Take an airport. Basically the same situation – you’re stuck and entirely dependent on others to get you out. Only the airport is full of stimuli. It’s an orgy of things going on. You’ve got announcements, people frantically running around, TVs all over the place, smells ranging from death and urine to cascading waves of cologne. It’s a feast for the senses.
Here, though, typing this in a hotel lobby, listening to 60’s malt-shop tunes and pondering what level of sogginess a pineapple can have and still be considered a solid, I’m metaphorically starving to death. Only a long trip through the frosted corn fields can save me now. Please driver, please hurry.