Valera 1 Purvaansh Valera Mrs. Goodman IB English IV 26 September 2023 “How it feels to be reflexive me” The engine's rhythmic hum set the tempo, my hands gripping the steering wheel as if holding on for dear life. My knuckles shone white under the glare of the sun peering through the windshield. Nirav's voice cut through the tense silence, a beacon of reassurance guiding me through unfamiliar grounds. "Driving isn't just about the mechanics of controlling the car," he said. "It's about listening to the vehicle's language and feeling its pulse." His words echoed my own struggle to understand the unspoken nuances in conversations. Just as I had learned to keep my ears open between my parents’ words, I now had to adjust to the subtle cues from the roaring engine. In those early lessons, he spoke of street signs as if they were runes filled with guidance. "Stop," with its authoritarian red octagon, warned of danger ahead. "Yield," a virtuous triangle, asked for patience and turn-taking. "Merge," two arrows becoming one, represented cooperation amongst travelers headed in the same direction. The street signs painted a portrait of courtesy and warning, echoing the understanding I sought to implement into my own communication. I realized driving was not a solo act, but rather a dance with fellow drivers, each responding to the other's signals. The open road beckoned like a blank canvas, eager for the swirl of our tires' roaming brushstrokes. My car became my palette, each gear shift and pedal press blending colors and rhythms into the driving composition. Fellow motorists entered as collaborators, our turn signals calling and responding like birdsong, synchronizing this unchoreographed dance. Valera 2 Those blinking arrows were cues, silently announcing "I'm merging now" or "Coming through." I had learned to converse in blinks, my headlights flickering responses, joining the unheard exchange between vehicles. This was pure communication without words, simple signals echoing the road signs. Parallel parking, once impossible, now became an automatic art of precision, the car sliding into place through an unspoken conversation between vehicle and driver. I realized driving, like listening intently, was about decoding meanings beyond what the eyes saw nor ears heard. The highway stretched onward towards the horizon, an open road filled with possibilities. Other cars came in and out of view like characters in a play, each with their own story implied in their speed and direction. As we drove, I imagined the lives of the people within those vehicles where they were coming from and where they were headed on their own journeys. Nirav and I were fellow travelers on this road, using blinkers as mumbled conversations and steering wheels as unspoken understandings. Like long-haul truckers connected over crackling radios, we found connection in the silence between words. The rumbling engine became a comforting lullaby, reminding me that sometimes words failed to capture the depth of human experience. This highway was life in miniature, with its twists, turns, and moments where reaction mattered more than lengthy discussion. Nirav was the wise old driver, navigating it with ease while I was the newbie, learning to read the road's subtle language. As old as this path was, it felt new and ready for exploration. I recalled the words of Mary Martin–“There is a world of communication beyond the use of words”–realizing that at times understanding runs deeper than spoken replies. Nirav was teaching me that listening is an art form requiring patience, like waiting for a flower to bloom. The seeds of comprehension had been planted with each mile marker we passed. When the highway straightened, it was a metaphor for how communication Valera 3 clears when egos stop thirsting for position. In the quiet cabin of our car, I realized that sometimes the deepest connections happen when words simply stop, and two travelers listen to the road ahead together.
