When I was younger, I didn't know what came to me. I rode my bike and tried to go on a straight line wondering how far I would go. Dust and smoke hit my eye, rain poured, but I still went on. Finally, when my legs and feet felt sore, I would stop and look around to see where I am.
To tell you the truth, it didn't matter what scene it was. Deep inside me, I was happy, contented. Even though countless times on that moment I asked myself why I did it. It didn't bother me because I was full, everything about me was complete.
Last night, I tried riding again, but this time with a 125cc motorcycle. I went on with a full tank of gasoline and a 3 liter reserve inside my backpack. I went from 60 to 120 km/h like I own the road. I was careless.
I just let my mind fly and let everything slip away for a moment, until my body was closed of having hypothermia, and my fuel gauge was under empty. I just stopped and closed my eyes, but it wasn't the same no matter how hard I tried to. I still can't get over the fact I am incomplete.