Today, I want to run away from the world.
I want to find a Vanagon for sale, cheap, a little beat up. One that's been around the block a few times and seen a lot of life. And I want to dig out my paintbrush and turn it every color thinkable, with a big bright rainbow swoosh down each side, a sun slopping a bit down the windshield, white clouds on a sky-blue roof.
I'll fill the back with couch cushions and glowsticks, sleeping bags and peanut m&ms. Then I'll fill it with the people I love most, C and L and J and S and B and that girl down the street I've been wanting to befriend. We'll wear tye-dye.
We'll drive west, aiming for the ocean. We'll avoid the highways, favoring the roads less traveled. When night comes, we'll camp outside under trees or under stars. If it rains, we'll pile together in the back of the van and barely sleep at all.
The van is be guaranteed to break down at least twice, each time leaving us in a bit of predicament. Tempers will flare. We'll argue heatedly, hating each other for the moment, each threatening to leave and head home on the next Greyhound. Somehow we'll pull through. We'll get the van started again, and each decide to stick with it and with each other for a little longer.
That night someone will pull out a guitar and start singing Bob Dylan into the last of the melting sunset. We'll join in, because that's why we went on this trip, after all. We'll slap mosquitoes and lie on the hard ground and settle into the night. And despite the fact that it's just another night lying in the dirt, sweat not quite dry on our skin and the too-closeness of many people over a long time, the stars will still shine down. A quiet breeze will kick up, like a sigh over our huddled dark shapes. And that moment will be enough.
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