mei

"Hell is other people," Jean-Paul Sartre.

(See--you're in good company at least. Don't let it get you down.)

Last night, at 2a, of my bandmates and I were driving the two hours back home from a gig we played at a bar. The highway we took rans right up against the coast, and the ocean's mist poured over the road like brothy soup, obscuring all but a few of the road markings reflecting my car's headlights.

There are times that my head gets full to bursting with the volumes of uncertainties in the world I try to single-handedly dispel. A few hours before, I tried letting go of this all, and did my best to mingle with the bar patrons in the bar's eloquent spanish mission courtyard-style patio -- they even had a freakin' olive tree growing smack dab in the middle. Losing my mental weight in such a setting seemed an easy to do. But to no avail. I found myself slinking off to the corner store to buy my first pack of cigarettes in almost two months.

But at 2a (or so my dashboard clock says), my passenger-side friend and I were far, far away from any resolution, the stars were blotted out, the road was barely visible a few feet ahead of us, and the car was stuffy with the musk of three sweaty musicians. Yet I felt the freest I've felt in a long time.