Still Searching

There was a road.
It stretched out before him for miles and miles, seemingly limitless. The straightest, truest thing he’d ever seen. It didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He would never believe it. The road was dusty, bumpy and filled with potholes. For some reason, he liked it better that way. It lent the road a homelier atmosphere, almost as if it was saying, “You’re beat up, and so am I. Let’s take this journey together.” This road, this worthless, pathetic stretch of concrete was his only friend. It would never lie to him, never try to lead him in the wrong direction. It simply went, and gave him the choice to go or not go. There was freedom in it; it took him away from everything, or to everything, whichever was most apt at any given time.

This particular time, he was trying to get away. He had a disturbing feeling that his life was wrong, not that something was missing, just simply that it was wrong. That feeling had been nagging him, haunting him for the past couple weeks until he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to do something, or nothing would ever happen. And that’s what he was most afraid of, that nothing would happen, ever. His family, his friends, his house, his work, his life was always the same. It never changed, his routine, it was mind-numbingly stagnant. There was his job, which he worked Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, 10 hours a day, every week, all the time, never using vacation time. His desk, empty, except for the computer which had held the same files for two years, a picture of his girlfriend, smiling, so full of life, and two pencils, always two for no reason in particular. His house, with the same dull furniture and the same dull paint job. His friends, who worked their jobs and slept and ate with the same strict regularity that he had come to hate. He hated them, he couldn’t help himself, they were just so damn normal, and so damn complacent. They just never noticed how useless their lives were and he hated them for that. He thought about it for a second, and felt guilty for hating them, but he couldn’t change how he felt, for some reason, he couldn’t change anything, and that is what disturbed him the most.

So here he found himself, staring out over the road which became his friend; the road that wouldn’t lie to him. Because here is what’s wrong, he thought to himself. This road is true; his life wasn’t. It didn’t inspire him, give him hope, or joy or even pain. It was fake, false. It was just wrong. Here was his car, the only thing in his life that ever changed, and always for the worse. He was always taking this thing to the shop because, even though he didn’t want to admit it, it was dying; it was losing the life, the vitality that had compelled him to buy it in the first place. Here is the car’s last hurrah, its final shot to prove itself, to make something of itself. The road would give it that chance, and he hoped it would also give him a chance.


He had been driving for a while, probably about 2 hours before he started to zone out. He zoned out in much the same way that he did while he was at work, or at home or with his friends, or really anywhere come to think of it. The only truly intense thinking he had done in a while was when he had decided to leave. He really reasoned it out: to truly and honestly make a change, he needed to cut himself off from everybody and everything. That meant not telling his family or friends he was going, not informing work that he wouldn’t be showing up anymore, not stopping to check the mail or pay the bills or even make his bed. He just had to go and he had to go now.

It felt good, he had to admit it. There were no worries, no cares, no anxiety. The nagging feeling was even starting to subside, it seems he was on the right track. So he started to zone out. He thought to himself, “I was in the middle of everything and I felt dead, now I’m in the middle of nowhere and I’ve never felt more alive, or more sure of being alive. I am a living thing; I deserve to live,” and more nonsense of that nature. Everything was so beautiful: the dusty road, the dirty plains and the dying car; it was all logical and perfect. It all made sense. And it was just so beautiful. He let a tear drop. He had never cried, not once in his entire life. He had always been stoic and thoughtful, in fact, his parents had worried about that when he was younger: Why didn’t he cry? Why didn’t he laugh and play and get dirty and get in trouble like all the other kids? Eventually they stopped trying to figure it out and started trying to accept it. They never could though, and there always seemed to be a distance between him and them for that reason. They couldn’t understand him, and that scared them.

But here he was crying. Crying. Because everything was so beautiful and terrible and miserable all at the same time. And it hit him all at the same time. He would never forget the majesty, the weight of that moment. It was dripping with intensity. The absolute absurdity of it all was incredible; the fact that it was so incredibly ridiculous, his life, yet it all made sense at that moment was what made it so perfect. And he had cried, he could never forget that he had cried.


And like that, it was gone. The moment, the feeling, the tear: all gone. He was left, not quite empty, but not quite full, either. He realized with sudden clarity that he could never again be what he was in that moment, the absolute fulfillment of human potential. This made him inexorably sad. But just as suddenly, he knew that he would never be that empty shell of a man ever again. There was something in him, not much, but there was something. There would never be that haunting feeling again, the one telling him that his life was wrong. And he would strive to get that moment back, the one of inexpressible joy and knowledge. He would always reach for that. And that felt right. He hadn’t technically found what he was looking for, whatever that was. But, in a way, he had: the mere fact that he was searching and would continue to search, continue to strive was actually what he was looking for. There were signs of life, and he would be content with that. Content, but not complacent. He realized the difference now.

He turned on the car radio. As if reading his thoughts, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” by U2 came on quietly. What a strange, fitting coincidence, he thought to himself. He turned it up and let it wash him away. Outside the window, the quiet road stretched on into infinity.