It's an universe...the inside of a car. The music lingers after you have switched off the radio, the miles mist away in a swirl of nothing after you have finished the journey (for that time, at least), cool air shivers at the vents of the AC that is off now. The headlights no longer shine on the lane that is now wet and slick with cold rain. The inside of a car feels a lot less lonely than the inside of the home. It could be that the home is for the steadfast settler of the mind while the car is for the gypsy of the heartbeat. And that heartbeat can take you away from the tangled mess of 'here' so easily. That heartbeat, of course, sings when you are on the road. But in the stillness of the night, even when no-one is going anywhere, even as the home beckons with its ease and familiarity of the soft blanket and the warm food and the rancid coldness of being alone yet another day, a moment inside a parked car is perfect.
Sometimes, I sit inside for just a moment longer, breathing a little more deeply. Even though the chaos of work still awaits me as does the choked heartache of I don't know what, the universe that is inside the car has the waft of an incense stick, it has the sweeping brush of tall bamboos, and the tinkle of a stream nearby.
Unlike the inside of a home, the inside of the car is a cheeky wink - that destination doesn't necessarily mean destiny.