My generation- whatever that means.
Some of us grew up with drifters as heroes.
Driving the old hand me down shagon-wagons, mini-vans, driving away from family, driving to college, driving back.
Instead of jumping box cars I’m jumping planes. Fly away and don’t come back.
Driftwood can be beautiful.
A piece of a broken boat, house, or sign floats on the ocean. Tossed around by waves. Aged by wind, water, salt. The sun dries it when it floats ashore. Someone collects it and transforms it into vintage furniture sold in some chic store. Eventually the wood decorates a home.
Or it can float on in the ocean. New adventures. But does it only stay exciting if it keeps moving?
Maybe it never makes it to being a mantelpiece, part of a coral reef, aged wood in the waves.
Maybe it gets stuck in a bog. And rots.
