As a child, my family used to take me to stay at my auntie’s home in the West Midlands. I never liked car journeys, they always gave me nausea. As a result i learnt to focus out of the window to alleviate the swirling inside my stomach and to instead thrive on the vast wilderness we surpassed on the way.
Being a child, it wasn’t difficult to let my imagination prance in the endless selection of exciting scenarios i wish my life would be, and to long for the adventure i felt was literally on the end of my fingertips. I would create these alternate situations as to why we were miles out on the crowded motorway. Crazy fantasies of searching for sanctuary from whatever horrific disaster had happened back home. Perhaps this time London had accidentally released a flesh eating virus we had to escape from, or a nuclear explosion had occurred and our only salvation was to flee from the radiation that would melt our vital organs. Either way i was content. Not content that a flesh eating virus would be eating my friends back home, but content in the fact that i had the capacity to pick and choose what life i wanted, when and where i wanted it from the comfort of the back seat.
Growing up isn’t as exciting, and although that longing for an adventurous beneficial life doesn’t go away, it gets easier to accept that the scenarios you pieced together over time are virtually improbable.
To this day i still sit at the back of the bus on my lonesome when i have important places to be, and stare out of the bus window. I imagine a life without the crippling struggles of work, education and adult responsibilities. Back to the days when race issues were nothing more than who ran the fastest, and your time management was solely dependent on what time the ice cream van would arrive. It doesn’t matter where i am or who i have grown to be.
I will forever be the child in the back of the car.