In the past, there was something beautiful about driving in the dark hills. Beautiful and dangerous, yet still not threatening. Headlights cut a path, neither warm nor cold, but visibly clear for as long as the moment lasted. In those seconds, it was like looking into the future, even if the future was only a quarter mile away.
I was blessed to lose myself at those times, looking into the future as if the past had never existed. It never lasted long. The road would end, the sun would rise or the infernal cell phone would chirp. The death of the fantasy was never dramatic, never lovely, never bloody – it was just the end. I dreaded it. Every time. Yet, dread went hand-in-hand with acceptance, because, in all reality, what else was there?
Love was like driving along those darkened slopes. Up, down, around the curve, over the bridge, only seeing as much as you could see by the cut of the headlight beams. Was loving a person worth the eternal chase, or the inevitable breakdown of machinery? I guess it wasn’t my question to ask, or answer, for that matter. It also was not my choice to make. You love who you love, regardless of the fact of their feelings; they love you back or they don’t. You have no control over that. So you just keep driving on, soaking up all of the peacefulness of the night rolling over the hills, praying that you don’t run out of time, money, ambition, guts, faith or tread. You keep on keeping on until the radio plays its one last forgotten song and you realize you’ve made it, or you’ve been left behind.
That’s what love is. A race that can’t be won.