I write this, at 2:55am on Good Friday morning; my knees huddled against my chest, the dim prospect of sleep abolished and my family within a 3 metre radius of myself. And so in the back left-hand seat of the car, one hour and a half into a 6 hour journey to Cornwall, spontaneity has settled within me and with a body soothed by the cathartic motion of the car, I write, as always.
My headphones are on and my thoughts are entwined with the soft guitar, the honey voices and dewy sounds of Swim Deep and The Maccabees. Luckily, both of which are effectively drowning out the long drawl of the SatNav, the radio, and the sounds of my brother and Dad coughing and spluttering with the cold they jointly share, and the cold of which I am ensured to jointly share by tomorrow.
The sky is tinted with the murky hues of grey and purple, dark with polluted dreams and set aglow by the motorway streetlights and the light of those that defy all night-time conventionalities.
In this segment of time, a fraction of a moment in the making, when people should be asleep, the world is alive.
Unknown people travel to unknown places, their tale only partially explained by the faint glow emitted by a Sat-Nav. People fuel their thoughts by gulping down lungful after lungful of dense, dark oxygen. People are calling into the radio, service stations are busy and the SatNav even warns us of oncoming traffic. Now, at 3:12 in the morning with 193 miles to go, the world is Living beyond all of my expectations. And it's truly a magical experience, discovering the energy of the darkness in the quiet, small hours, those secreted with solitude and silence.
In this car, we are each keeping oneself company, and the others. The darkness, the hollowness of the mind, is littered with thread-bare thoughts and quiet reflection. Here, in the car, the radio is tuned on low, my sister is asleep, my brother is listening to music, my parents are making small conversation, and I am writing and listening to music. Each of us has found a pore of the night to stash ourselves away in, and we are comfortable respecting each other's own company. I think that an ability to do so is an enlightening image of family.
I suppose I write this in reflection of my surprise. Each night, we may sleep, but the world persists on. Others in different time zones and obscure situations turn the wheel of existence and when dawn rises, it lifts those night-crawlers of their responsibilities and drowns us with our own in passionate colours staining the skies.
Driving into the darkness beyond the headlights, I become a cog in the workings of the wheels of life. Because the world will always live, and continue to follow the cycle of human activity, as long as we exist. And so on the night of a Thursday and the morning of a Friday, submerged in the void between the two, the world is alive. To be part of that, the ordinary extraordinary realisations of life, is something pretty special, I say. Appreciate it.
- Lauryn x