The van is my rusty, leaky refuge. Wet towels, sand deposits, and objects as displaced as myself loom in the 80 square feet like goblins tugging at my patience. Mould and rust battle bleach and my bank respectively, in the end they'll definitely win. At barely 50 miles per hour, sometimes the interstate can't be avoided, at which times horns are honked and birds are flipped and at the very worst, truck drivers have actually sent me off the road gripping my wheel for dear life. We all put up with something to feel something else, right? 〰
Sometimes I feel these limitations and hazards are penitence. Sometimes I feel it's my yang to my yin. Sometimes I feel it's just life and trouble is unavoidable, and the myth of safety and security and freedom only makes trouble more dominant, louder, and meaner.
I guess this is my "life on the road isn't as great it looks" post. 🤷♂️