I rolled down the window and threw my joint out onto the highway, relishing in the chilly midnight breeze that slapped me across the face.
Driving alone at night was remarkably therapeutic. No sound, no images. Just miles and miles of blackness stretched out infinitely ahead, ornamented by a million yellow and red dots swimming in opposite directions, parallel to one another.
It could be a metaphor for life: hopelessly optimistic souls wandering through a seemingly endless journey so bleak and pointless that eventually they started praying for the end they had always dreaded. But then again, in our narcissistic little heads anything could be a metaphor for life.
Twenty minutes later my headlight was the only one illuminating the darkness around me. Maybe the weed was fucking with my head, but I never realized until now just how many shades of black existed at night. The stretch of concrete illuminated by my bright yellow headlight looked silver in comparison to the road behind the car. The outline of trees bordering the highway was so dark and dense that the wavy hills in the background faded to an ink blue. And the sky, the only thing that was truly black, became a gentle gray backdrop to its darker counterparts.
It’s all about perspective. Now that’s a metaphor I was hopeful for.