The Ride Home

After every shift is the ride home. 

It is lonely, and it is so quiet; the kind of quiet that could drive someone off the cliff. 

Breaching this quiet are my thoughts, blaring at decibels capable of popping ear drums. 

It reminds me of how disparaged and devoid of all the right emotions I am. 

It forces recollection of everything I've worked so hard to forget. 

The ride home is painful, like a verbally abusive parent reminding me of my vices. 

It is merciless, it does not care about my day thus far. 

It does not worry about troubling my psyche further. 

All the ride home knows is how to stir the bubbling pot filled with my darker emotions. 

"Why can't you love? Why can't you feel, connect and intertwine with another being?" 

Then once more there is quiet, a different and unnerving silence, for I have not a single answer to my own questions. 

As chills run down my spine I violently shake my head, as a dog does when it is trying to dry itself off. 

My skin is not wet, I am merely trying to physically eradicate the sounds, memories, and feelings that currently inhabit my conscious. 

Every second feels like its own eternity, and with every dashed line I pass I am one eternity closer to ending this night's journey. 

I turn the music up and let the howling vocals and irate melodies soothe my woes. 

Autopilot returns and I coast home, almost unaware of my surroundings.  

A long and heavy exhale signals the finale to this journey, once more I shake my head and exit the vehicle binding me to my freedom.