For weeks it was always the same, night after night. Unable to sleep, I’d find myself driving around in my car, the soft humming of its engine invoking a sense of tranquility in my disrupted mind.
Each night I would find myself driving to the same place; a short lane, fenced on either side by rows upon rows of houses and finally opening up a little wider to a recreational space on the left with a row of houses on the right.
Among the multitude of double-storey terraced abodes, a single house stands out above the rest. Its white picket gate with bells on it distinguishes it from all the other ashen grey homes I see in my mind.
This is where my body takes me. In that moment of driving, the vibrations of the engine cooing to me, my mind becomes a blank canvas, lost in its own tendrils of thought shielding me away from the outside world. In that moment, my body takes over.
Every pothole, every turn, memorized. Every traffic light, every road block, indented into my muscles. They relax at the right moment, they tense up at the best times. And at the end of it all, they take me to you.
It was a rough year for the both of us. The defining memories I have of you aren’t the ones I care for. But they’re memories of you just the same. I hold on to what little I have of you and claw for the rest.
Each night my body takes me to you and all I can do is stand outside in the night.
Featured art by Kim Khaira for ISSUE #16: OTHER.
Haziq Hamid is a regular contributor for ISSUE Magazine. He tweets at @ZiqqyZiqqy