It was almost 10:30. I’d been driving for hours, 13 hours go be exact, when the sky started to sparkle. One after another sparks of color shot into the sky and exploded in a puff of glittering light. I was enamored.
I watched the fireworks, eyes drifting from the road. They were so… random. It was the beginning of march, no date the world was celebrating. No reason to use such an extravagant form of celebration.
I watched them in the distance sparkle, shout, and explode. I had to reach them soon, right? I was driving towards them. They had to come from somewhere.
I stepped down on the gas a little more, my speed reaching 83. I watched pink then yellow then white lights gleam in the sky. The exhaustion of my week seemed to simmer with the lights. I felt myself smile.
I didn’t know somewhere far away from the highway a dad was lighting each firework with his newly engaged son. I didn’t know a mom laughed as she poured herself and her sister another drink. I didn’t know kids screeched with excitement at every BOOM and crackle. I didn’t know why these lights exploded. I just knew they were saving me that night and I had to reach them, the lights of color and happiness.
If the dark of the night could be lit by a single collection of gunpowder and chemicals then perhaps my life, filled with it’s own gunpowder and toxin, could also explode into beauty. Maybe if I lit a flame, the tension would let loose and a spectacle of glamour would take it’s place.
I drove on and soon the lights moved into my rear view window, now behind me.
I drove forward. Speed hitting 84 85 and 86.
I drove with a wide smile.
I drove away from a compact life that refused to shoot into the sky. I took the road like an artist driving to their first professional gig. I turned off my music and rolled down the window, despite the cold air. The lights were getting smaller behind me, but the sounds still reached me.
Forward was a place of mystery.
And yet I drove.
I had to reach my own lights.