Where the Memory Actually Is, I Don’t Need a Destination

It’s 4am on an April morning and I move through my house like I’m trying to rob the place.

My wife and son are asleep in the bed with me and the whole house is silent.

I slide out of bed quietly, grab clothes from the closet by feel, my wallet, a hat off the dresser. Everything slow and deliberate. 

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth half-awake. I pop an Adderall out of the bottle. They taste sweet and chalky, almost like candy, which feels a little wrong for something that’s about to turn my brain on like a switch. I wash it down with a gulp of water and stare at my reflection like I’m checking in with someone I barely know.

I grab an energy drink from the fridge. Throw on a hoodie and my boots. Then head out the door.

It’s cold at 4am, I’m up this early way too often, I think to myself. I fire up my truck, crack the energy drink, and pull out of the driveway.

I’m headed to meet friends who live over an hour away. Still dark as I merge onto the interstate. My headlights feel dim. One day a deer is going to jump out and I won’t see it until it’s too late.

I think that thought a lot.

I never do anything about it.

I just keep driving.

By the time I get to my friend’s place, the sun is barely cracking over the horizon. Everyone’s barely awake. We give each other a friendly greeting, put out our cigarettes, and then we pile into the rental for the weekend, a massive Chevy Suburban. 

We packed light. No hotel. No backup plan. We’re driving a few states south for a party, then turning around and coming straight back. A turn-and-burn, an all too familiar form of travel for us. 

Not long into the drive, the restlessness kicks in. Sitting upright feels unbearable. I crawl into the back cargo area of the SUV and stretch out among bags and jackets, like the family dog on a road trip. 

The sound of the tires on the road is hypnotic. The steady hum, the occasional thump. I stare at the ceiling and think about how often I end up here—tired, uncomfortable, moving through space faster than I probably should be.

I ask myself why I do this.

Why I keep choosing exhaustion.

Why discomfort feels familiar.

Why “this might be a bad idea” usually sounds like an invitation.

I don’t come up with answers. I’m too tired to care. I close my eyes and let the road knock me out.

I wake up to bumps and sharp turns. We’re off the interstate now. I look out the window and we’re winding through country roads. No signs I recognize. No clue what state we’re in.

It doesn’t matter.

The scenery rolls by, grassy hills, trees, narrow roads bending into themselves. It’s quiet, peaceful, and such a beautiful day out there. That image burned itself into my brain, even though I couldn’t tell you where it was if my life depended on it.

The rest of the trip blurs together. We make it to the party. We hang out. We don’t sleep. Then we turn around and do it all again in reverse.

I drive most of the way home until I can’t anymore. At some point, my body finally taps out and I hand the wheel over. After nearly 24 hours of driving, chaos, and caffeine, we end up right back where we started.

I pull into my driveway just as quietly as I left it. Same dark house. Same careful steps. I slip back into bed like I was never gone, like none of it happened.

To this day, I have no idea where that stretch of road was. And I kind of love that.

Knowing would ruin it. Pinning it down on a map would make it ordinary. I like that it exists only as a feeling. Somewhere beautiful you only see when you’re tired enough, reckless enough, and just uncomfortable enough to notice it.

Looking back, I think I understand part of why I keep doing this. Or at least I understand enough to stop pretending it’s accidental.

That trip wasn’t unique. It just felt that way because it survived intact in my memory. Most of them don’t. They just blur together.

It’s the strangeness I remember.

Like walking the streets of Virginia Beach at sunrise, the only person awake, hunting down a 7-Eleven for coffee.

Sitting in a Waffle House, not knowing what time zone I’m in, asking the waitress what state we were in and realizing I genuinely didn’t know.

Or riding my motorcycle alone at night, stuck in a thunderstorm, counting exits and hoping the next one comes before a semi does.

I think that’s the thing for me. I never care where I’m going because the destination never has anything to do with the memories. My best memories are from the time spent with my friends, or when I’m alone wandering around a new place. 

I don’t chase chaos because I like things falling apart. I chase it because chaos strips everything down. It forces moments you can’t plan, scenes you don’t get to revisit, beauty you wouldn’t see if you stayed comfortable.

For some reason, that’s where I feel most at home.