O is for on the Westside Highway

| April 25, 2014

I have driven continually on the Westside Highway for almost a year now. I find comfort in these experiences that nearly resemble wanderlust. Transitoriness, if nothing else, has emerged as a thematic recurrence since the start of my last year as an undergraduate.

Straight from my flip phone

There might be some kind of therapeutic component to lengthy trips in your car. Having any album that you enjoy in your palm gives you the liberty to conjure whatever emotion at the click of your thumb. You have complete selection over the interior ambiance that you desire to foster in your car—since you cannot control the city’s.

The lights, the buildings, the cars, the joggers, the cyclists, the cars, the busses, the Citi Bikes, the concrete dividers, the side streets, the main streets, and the ubiquity thereof and whatever else I am missing. They are everywhere here and I cannot help to think that inasmuch as these things inundate me I enjoy them too to some strange masochistic extent. Oh and traffic.

Twilight—or night itself—on the Westside highway has proved to me that seeing these blankets of illuminations, and the radiance thereof, fosters introspection and healing. Never-ending landscapes.

As voyeuristic as this might sound, I often wonder, as I drive, how the lives of the individuals who have apartments that showcase their private life: windows that are absent of blinds. Are they happy? Are the walls decorated with paintings filling up space? Do any of these things mean anything to you?

I have thought a lot on this road. Or vice versa.