In yesterday’s post, I wrote about my perfect place. For a lot of today, I thought hard about that place and what it represented, and what it might represent. For the most part, I came away stumped and frustrated.

(Press play, then read.)

One of the most amazing and terrifying things about being a person is not knowing whether you have anything in common with your fellow humans. You can like oranges and your friend can like oranges and there’s nothing weird about that, but consider this: What if an orange tastes different to your friend than it does to you. What then?

I think of these things more than I probably should. I wonder if when I’m extremely happy, or angry, or lonely, or whatever, I feel the way you do. I wonder if my driving-at-night fantasy happy place is built of the same stuff that you might build yours out of. I wonder if there are people out there that read yesterday’s post and instinctively got it. I wonder if close friends of mine got it. I worry that close friends of mine read it, didn’t get it, and unconsciously started liking me less.

I wonder if some stranger out there on the internet read it and I wonder what it meant to them if they did.

One of the things I think I have to deal with more than most is my inner monologue. I feel disabled in that I can’t turn it off; I feel insufficient because it’s my divining rod. I do what it says. When I want to leave a party, or a bar, or some other place, I do — but I usually do because my inner monologue, the conversation I’m having with myself while at (one of) those places, is more interesting than whatever I’m doing. The driving-at-night fantasy exists at the intersection of interesting and peaceful, a place that is about possibility, about the beginnings of things.

I wonder if I’ll actually find it someday.

This is post #14 post in my #30posts challenge. Don’t know what that is? Read this.