I like to drive on 94,

east, west, it doesn’t even matter, 

but I like to drive on 94. 

Out of all the freeways in the world I have 

sped on, 94 carries my path of destruction along it. 

 

I like to drive 94

late at night, when it’s clear, when no one else is one the road.

I want to drive at eighty miles an hour, 

just to see if someone will noticed that I’ve curved 

around the corners thirty miles over the speed limit. 

I want to feel the car hydroplane through a downpour, 

just to see if I will survive, 

because god knows I’ve encountered death so many times. 

 

I like to drive 94

when I crave inspiration early in the morning around one am.

It’s the only time I’ve felt my heart patter rapidly

as Siri takes notes while I’m driving, 

listening to the shit I’ve thought was great to write about

because all of my best lines comes from the times I am driving

on 94. 

 

I like to drive 94

because I like to relive all of the times

I’ve cried on 94, laughed on 94, and sang on 94. 

I want to relive the times that 94 has taken me to other cities

other relationships 

other friendships

I want to relive the times that 94 has

ended relationships

ended friendships

and began new chapters in this

unending climax of the novel I can’t seem to escape. 

 

I like to drive 94

because I like to be reminded of the people I know 

at every exit.

I breathe in their memories each time I pass their exit

as the window is down, and I can feel the ghosts of our pasts

breeze through my hair. 

Every exit reminds me of someone. 

 

I like to drive 94

because it reminds me of you

and I only like to reminisce the best parts of you

when I’m driving on 94.

 

This piece has been published on Thought Catalog. You can view the published version here

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