Most people get their driver’s licenses at 16. It’s a rite of passage into adulthood unlike any other. It is not needing to rely on anyone to get you where you are going. Today, I am 20 years old and have had a driver’s license for all of three days.
I have spent the last four years of my life stranded, trapped on an island surrounded by boats. A means of escape made inexplicably unavailable to me. My friends always knew where I was, and from time to time they took me away from my solitude, but I was always returned. I am left alone in a vast ocean, imprisoned without my freedom or any chance of parole.
At 18, when all of your friends drive, you become incredibly aware of the fact that you do not. I was lucky; I had many good friends willing to drive me. For a time, that arrangement was perfect, a true blessing, yet before long your self-perception begins to change. Slowly your image morphs from that of a human being to more of a leech. With every ride you bum or beg for, you see yourself as more and more of a parasite clinging desperately to the hope that “Maybe he’ll drive me to the movie,” or “Hopefully she’ll pick me up on the way to the party.” Knowing from the deepest realms of your soul they don’t want to do this and that it is a mere kindness.
As I signed my documents at the DMV, I felt something change within me. I felt a tangible shift. As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning in the shape of a cockroach, I had once again become a human. I was freed from the bonds of the parasitic reality that had been my life. This change manifested itself as an overwhelming sense of relief, leaving me both exhausted and exhilarated. It was an exhaustion that provided clarity, clarity over a truer nature of the world.
This little piece of paper changed everything. My confidence skyrocketed and my stress levels plummeted. The world’s possibilities suddenly seemed infinite, and somehow the things that stood in my way were nowhere to be seen. The world shined more clearly than it ever had before. My “metamorphosis,” however, pales in comparison to the unadulterated sense of freedom that comes with the actual drive.
After a night out with friends, all that was left for me to do was drive home. It was 1:30 a.m., that special time of night for the lovers, the poets, and the philosophers. With nothing but my thoughts and Bon Jovi quietly playing in the background, I merged onto the freeway to experience the most sensational feeling of freedom. Suddenly I could go anywhere. I could do anything. This car would escort me through life as a welcome companion. For the first time, I felt as though I was without boundaries: free to roam the world, free to sample the flavors of the universe, free to learn what it means to be a man, and free to experience the mysteries of creation. To drive is to understand freedom.
