I wonder why they call this a holiday, when just like any other warm day, you spend your time at the side of the road, waving your clenched hand with the thumb's-up sign, with the intention of catching a ride that would eventually take you somewhere. Your hastily written but carefully planned cardboard sign propped up by the side of your weary feet reads - "ANYWHERE" - a place you never intended to travel to, much less arrive at.
Even then, nobody trusts you enough to pick you up. Not even a single dusty, cramped space at the back of a truck, where you could have relished the journey in the company and comfort of livestock or all sorts of household gibberish. Anywhere. Just manage to get somewhere.
But all you see is the endless road. An infinite horizon stretching out ahead, indistinct images becoming even more blurred, shadowy lines and whorls of senseless matter at the back of your eyes. You sit down by the side of the road exhausted, drained.
What is life. What is living. Even anywhere has to be somewhere. There has to be a way to get there. Maybe tomorrow. If you live til tomorrow. Maybe you wake up and discover that the place you've been standing on is somebody else's somewhere. And you never really had to go anywhere. Because where you are is where you're supposed to be.