A Drive Unforgettable

First solo drive...wow...



I did not think that my mom was going to give me permission ever to do something like this, but it was happening. The morning started early, and I arose to anxiety and loud rap, earlier than the sun. I had triple checked all my belongings, making sure I was ready as ever for this expedition. I had my bags, suitcases, iPod, pills, cigars, books, flight bag, everything to make this vacation the best. I looked at myself deep in the mirror, took a deep breath, and glared into myself. I was ready, ready like I would be for a check ride, ready like I would be for a chance to blow up on stage, ready like I would be to play the championship game. Glanced back at my outfit, Black A's Cap, Chain, White Long Sleeve tight-fit Shirt, Fossil watch, Fitted Bracelets, Sierra Academy of Aeronautics Black Jacket, Evisu Jeans, and Air Force Ones. Damn...I was ready.

Not another soul to be seen, just me, my car, my music, and Mapquest. I blasted the first of the 6 new CD's made for solely this trip back to LA. Started out mellow, which was perfect, and I ventured to the windy roads down Mingus Mountain, through Highway 89. Traversing was no problem. The blood red sun shown its face very shyly as it peeped through my tinted windshield. Felt some warmth in my journey, as I crossed through Cottonwood, intercepting Phoenix into I10 WEST straight to LA. The mood was soulful and quiet. My car and I moved graacefully into the sky, as the notes that sang through my head of one goal: home.

By this time, my music replaced a mood of swagga. I wore my hat low, pulled out my stunna shades, and let my rims blade. The Jeep swayed through the highway, cause' I was the right way, becomin' the fly-way. No other car had swagga like this. I kissed the sun's bright bliss, and shot across the exits like I was just missed. And the others hissed, but this was nuthin' to me. Money, I got this in a bag, so easy like coppin' schwag, so dizzy like poppin' mags, boy, this is my swag. So hear what I rap, as I tap on the gas, as they wrap 'round my ass, I'm blazin' too fast, to get to scrapin the Bay, after hitting up LA. So you hear me', I move through the avenue, like I do what I gotta do, remindin you that it's what I move. You can call it sellin rocks, I call it movin blocks, and I got it on lock. And hear my car, hear me talk, hear the roar, see me walk, way past ya, cuz I hafta, get what I'm afta, homee, its home.

LA, Los Angeles, City of Lost Angels. Horns of trucks and semis and suburbans and SUV's trumpeted through the polluted methane into my ears and lungs. Lost Angels, only short to how I felt. I felt trapped in the midst of highways and freeways, traffic above and below, Heaven and Hell. 7 Levels left... Circles left for me to infinitely drive, hopefully to magically appear gates of home. Find me.

Home. Oh home...the idea teases me even as I lay in my bed now. It flirts and carresses the grooves to mind, soothing me with the exact tunes played across my skull during a drive. A solo drive, mind you. A drive that only I had control of, a drive that proved unforgettable.