Driving down the 202, sick of crying, you turn the sobs into a scream. The force of it shocks you, guttural and deep, this endless well of futility and mis-belonging spewing out in a torrent while you grip the steering wheel and pull, so hard your biceps ache, yet the car stays somehow perfectly between the lines.
It feels so good that you scream again, and again, and again, the sound so loud it hurts your ears but you cannot stop. You are not certain you will ever stop. You are not certain, now that you have begun screaming, that you can stop.
Perhaps you won’t. Perhaps you will drive forever on this endless loop, screaming over and over because there is freedom in the knowledge that no one can hear you. Because in the cab of this truck, in the night, there is only you, and you never make yourself feel as alone as other people do.
You think maybe here, in this liminal space between alone and not, in the transient peace the torture of your vocal cords has given you, you will become a ghost, forever haunting this stretch of road.
Perhaps, if you scream for eternity, it will finally be enough.