The Neon Drift
I didn’t have a destination. I just needed to leave the house, the walls feeling too close after a long week. I turned the key, and the engine’s idle was the only sound in the suburban driveway. I pushed my music playlist to something low-fi, bass-heavy, and pulled out into the cool night air. The city, usually a chaotic mess of sirens and traffic, was almost empty. The streetlights stretched out like a runway, painting the wet pavement in shades of orange and black. I hit the main avenue, where the shop signs were still glowing—ruby red for a late-night diner, electric blue for a convenience store—casting long, dancing shadows on the sidewalk. It felt like the city was holding its breath. I rolled down the windows, letting the crisp air mix with the heat from the dashboard. There’s a certain, almost "companionable" solitude to this kind of driving, where the darkness feels protective rather than lonely. I drove past a 24-hour café where a few souls sat alone, glowing under the fluorescent lights, each with their own story to tell, perhaps escaping the same silence I was seeking. I took a sharp turn, tires humming against the asphalt, and headed for the downtown district. The skyscrapers were black monoliths, dotted with only a few, lone windows that shone like "unwinking eyes". In the distance, I saw another car—just a single red taillight ahead, acting as a guide, moving at the same slow, deliberate pace as I was. I wasn’t speeding. I was just cruising. I passed a street corner I usually avoid during the day, now completely transformed by the neon glare of a neon sign. It was beautiful in a gritty, urban way. The city was, in that moment, entirely mine. As I started the long drive back home, I felt the stress of the week lift. The drive had been a, "comforting," meditative experience. I pulled back into my driveway, the engine finally falling silent, and for the first time in days, I was perfectly, utterly calm.