The tires are the things on your car that make contact with the road

I’ve got that feeling again.

Three and a half more months in Nashville, but the road is calling.

How do you normal people do it?  Stay in one place, commit to one job, have a home.  That isn’t cynicism, it’s a genuine question.

In each city, I wake up one morning and I just know, my time is coming to end.  You could think of it as a chicken and egg situation, which came first, my itinerant lifestyle or my inability to remain in stasis.  But I remember having this feeling while in Charlotte, first of the ten.

I had it in Kansas, of course, but that was twenty-two years in the making.  I was gonna burst.  Not in a good way.

Now, every year, somewhere around the nine month mark, that little whisperer that’s always in the back of my mind gets drunk and starts yelling at me, “Move the fuck on, mate!”  Apparently he’s Australian.

Will I ever lose that flight instinct?  When I’ve completed the tenth year, will I be ready to settle?  Will New York, a city I have fixated on for most of my life, really have enough magnetism to lock me down?

Aye, the questions.

Last night, while at a bar watching some karaoke performers, a women pulled me aside to ask me what country I was from.  She assumed I was a foreign tourist based on nothing more than viewing me from ten feet away.

What does this say about me that to a complete stranger I looked out of place, possibly adrift?

Or maybe I just have the unhealthy physique of someone from a former Soviet state.

This is not where I belong.

I’m not sure such a place exists.

The road beckons…

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