It’s hard to come by some time alone in this country. Company is everything, a stark contrast to the American ideal of independence. But solitude isn’t the same thing as loneliness, and few here have a grasp on that.

Drums sound in the trees as we pass the many illegal settlements by the side of the road, but they quickly fade into the distance, as do the people in the shacks of rotting wood and stolen bricks.

A weekend trip south offers the opportunity for silence, at least after everyone in the car wearies of the sounds of their own voices. Such a pause is a chance for contemplation of recent events and observations lest horrible things burst out of me like explosive pimples.

Gross.

Random thoughts shoot in and out about life, direction, responsibility and my most recent hair cut, if you’ll permit me that vanity. It’s not that I care so much as that I look like a lost kid in a suit. That, and everyone notices, and they all think they’re right, that their useless comments are the sole voice of reason, the most necessary things I needed to hear that day. They all think that they are the bass to my rhythm.

But it’s all drums in the distance to me, friends. Drums in the distance.