One night, he had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea why he was doing it, what he should be doing, where he should be heading or who he is. Is he pretending or being true to himself? He had no idea how he looked in others’ eyes. He had no idea what he was going to do the next day. Whether he would wake up at 9, or sleep the entire day away. He had no idea what he wanted to do. Neither his instinct nor his inertia of routine had anything to say about it. He had absolutely no idea who he was. What he’d been so far could draw no conclusions toward that.
Now, he knew he was going to sleep though. He wasnt anxious, he was at peace. It wasn’t even that he didn’t need to know, it was beyond that. He was happy not knowing. He was glad. The lack of answers, all the questions gave him something. They gave him a reason and a drive that had been missing for a while. Curiously missing. They gave him a reason to want to be awake after he woke up the next day. Because he would have to go looking for the answers. He knew the answers wouldn’t come soon, and he knew it wouldn’t be a reason to celebrate when he finds them. He just knew that he had to look. More than he ever knew any of the things he had no idea about anymore.
He thought he realised something about himself. He thought he realised that he didn’t adapt to change quickly at all, something he always thought he did. He knew he didn’t want to realise anything. He could sleep now. It was time for it. Without looking forward, without anxiety, without a planned defense against forseen boredom. Tomorrow would be a whole new day. And so would the day after that. Not just hours ticking away, counting that which can’t be measured. A whole new day, the way a child would look at it. Like a book by an author he hadn’t read. Like a new gizmo to reverse engineer. Like anything that is whole, and not something forced to take its place.
He knew that tomorrow, he would be driving.
And when he opened his eyes the next day, he already knew it. He knew it before he looked at the scribble in black ball pen on his left wrist that was the one word: “drive”.