65 Stay Alive
by MTS
Driving down highway 63 with a passenger seat full of angry butterflies, I roll down the window to
try to get rid of some of the more aggressive ones. They hiss and fight back, which is a new development. The cool air finds its way into my weary lungs; mixed with the comfort of the sun’s rays I
find the courage to tolerate my backseat drivers. Mile 152. There’s a rattling coming from somewhere
in the car. The engine? Or maybe it’s that baseball rolling around in the trunk? The rattling doesn’t
bother the butterflies, they’ve developed an immunity to the annoying sound that I can’t manage to
shake. With every passing evergreen tree I send a silent prayer, to whoever it is that receives them,
thanking the universe for bringing me one mile closer to you. Classic rock dilutes the air between me
and the rolling hills and all of the miles and miles of cows. I hope they enjoy the sweet sounds of Eddie Vedder as I practically fly through the air, driving well over the speed limit. I’ve driven this road so
many times, I know where all the cop cars hide. I find silence a challenge I no longer have the energy
for. Especially right now. I find myself in the unique situation of loving two places, two very different
worlds. One filled with the comforts of home, the other filled with everything I’ve always wanted,
along with a side dish of unknown challenges. How do I find an in-between? How do I get there, and
how painful will it be to leave what I have now? How much more pain can I handle without falling
apart again? The butterflies are fidgeting in their seat, restless once more. Must we stop again? Can’t
we get through just a few miles of not thinking about all the decisions I have to make and all the
places I’d rather be? It’s been well over five years since I was last among the mountains. Those were
the days when the butterflies flew the highest without fear. They threw caution to the wind. I was
limitless in the place among the pines. What happened? Years and high school and old friends that
weren’t really friends and lost hopes and dreams that were diminished by the reality of a cruel world
that I thought only existed in nightmares of adults that threw their lives away for high-paying accountant positions. The types of jobs that are carried out in tiny cubicles with no windows and bland
lunch menus. We’re told as children that if we put our mind to it, we can accomplish anything. Is it
wrong to believe in such a fantasy? At what age are we pulled to the side and told the truth of what
growing up means, and how difficult it actually is?
Alyssa by Sophie Holz
51