Every now and then I accidentally rediscover the sensation of living on the edge of the unknown.  There is a checkpoint that, as one approaches it, causes fear and confusion and restlessness to mount.  For me it has never been to an unbearable degree, but even as a relatively laissez-faire kind of girl, every now and then I have moments when I feel it imperative to outline a plan: to define something; to say, "I am this"; to chart a course to keep from falling into stagnancy.  But eventually the checkpoint of anxiety flies past like a payphone on the side of a desert road, and suddenly the only concerns are mild, and related to momentum.  The questions change from "Where are we going?" and "Where can we stay the night?" to "Can we fill up?" and "Should we take some food to go?" in hopes of staying on the road as long as possible.

It is hard to describe the sensation of possibility that brushes across skin at this precipice.  I am driving along the time line of my life without many regular passengers, and for a little while I am without destination; I have left one place for another, and I won't know where to stop until I see it.  For now, there is the air that rushes in through the windows, and more road ahead than behind.