Every night we've slept somewhere different. On beaches, under dry crackling palm fronds that sound like they will fly off in the sandstorm winds. In backyards, whose dirt was raked clean like a Zen garden. In raised palapa structures, whose wet blue paint stuck between my toes and whose floorboards sagged in the corners. Tonight we are the only visitors to a hotel full of bric-a-brac: rusty eggbeaters, cracked whale bones, clouded lanterns, hanging unicycles, and dismembered pickaxes.
We don't know where we'll lay our heads tomorrow and it doesn't give us the slightest anxiety. We have everything we need. Arms. Legs. A torso. Some shoes. A motor. An inflatable pad. And a sleeping bag, but we could sleep in the grass or on a bench just fine. The further we go, the less we need. It's refreshing. It's freedom.
Where we lay our heads isn't our choice, it's given to us by the world. We are following an invisible path. I lay my head next to yours, kiss your back, your neck and hold you. That's all I need.
Where we lay our heads, in pillows, in feathers, in foam rectangles that frame soft dreams from past lives. Our heads, full of hot air, of clutch cables, of when and if the next gas station will have gas or the next restaurant will actually have food. Nothing is guaranteed here. We made assumptions about the road and the road stopped in its tracks, pavement coming to a halt under our wheels and a concrete block greeted us. “I think it's this way” or “I wasn't sure about that back there”. I hesitate on the back of Claire. This trip is either Hell Yeah or Fuck No. No wishy-washy grey water that rises up to our chins, drowning us in minutiae and decisions that don't matter anyway.