(The day I stop singing along to this song,
is the day you should check to make sure I’m not a Changeling.)
It’s a funny thing when, twenty-five hundred miles from home, you pull over for food, and realize that you’ve been there before. The United States of America is a huge mass of land, a spiderweb of roads, miles and miles of stretching earth and stretching sky competing to see which can run the farthest. Just because you’ve driven from one coast to the other four times in the last four years doesn’t mean that you should be stumbling into the same places.
But, you’ve been in Kansas City, twice, and slept in a tent on the exact same patch of ground.
You’ve been to Indianapolis, twice, and gone to the same movie theater.
You’ve been to Hannibal twice, and white-washed the same fence, just for the literary reference.
You’ve been to Flagstaff twice, and thankfully, not gotten into the same trouble.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember that you’ve been to a little town in California twice already, not knowing that you were going to live there one day. And that seems stranger than just these wander throughs.
You’d like to conclude that the world is a smaller place than you believed, for you to tumble through the same streets so many times, but the truth seems only to be that some roads are dug deep from frequent travel and its easy to fall into them. There’s a wildness to that, which translates easily into the sort of joy you’re not sure if you want to wrap your hands around and hold onto, or just let stripe through your fingers. But you’re smiling. And you like the rush that comes from the spinning world. And you’ll decide what else to think about it once you’ve got your feet back under you.