Slipping through the dark, the chill getting at every exposed surface. A diligent effort to grind itself to the bone. Not exactly
March weather. The fact that we are doing 90 with all the windows rolled down doesnt help. A slight fog in the distance only helps concrete the dream-like quality of the vision. After all when was the last time a dream interspersed with reality putting to rubbish a non-existent line. My hand hangs limply out the window
slipstreaming to the rush of air. Up - down - up - down goes the motion on and on. Me oblivious to it all.
I let my thoughts wander.
2130 was what the clock on the dashboard read when we passed the last human civilization. 2148 is what it reads now. Unless I am mistaken they dont quite have a tendency to lie so this I will accept without subjecting to the usual round of questioning. Leaving no room for doubt.... but the mind refuses to acquiesce. After all a spark is more than sufficient when there is already lying nascent the fuel.. Searching / waiting / hoping for its liberator, its life, its true essence, its finality.
The thoughts are indeed a jumble.
They had a generator going which explained the profusion of light. Some sort of celebration. Apparently the place doesnt have a sizable vote-bank which explains the lack of basic amenities. Big Brother just cant be bothered enough. The age old tale doesnt fail to dissapoint - you scratch my back, I scratch yours. Only trouble is my nails fail to make a mark. Lots of people out on the streets in their best clothes. One of the few times each year that they get to see each other in their best finery under the glare of an artificial light. Does it help beautify or does the white light only help cloud the vision imagined ? Somehow the artificial light only helps cloud an already blurred vision. Or so me thinks.
Now just plain cynical
But then what of being cynical for the person who is so all the time. It is no more an attribute, a phase but rather a base instinct which is now part of the package as a whole.Clutching at lost threads I endeavour on. Sitting in the car I realize my mind is in knots. A plain refusal to think straight, cruising the bylanes to avoid the gridlock on the freeway.
Round and round,
A quick glance at the ground,
Havent quite spun enough..
All I want to do is let go. Of what ? -- I am not quite sure. That doesnt stop me from wanting to let go every waking moment. 2153 and the lights of the town are upon me. Five minutes or so and I will be home. But alas that is the last place I want to be right now. An irresistible urge to go on, god knows where, keep the pedal to the metal. Trouble is, I am not the one driving. So sit silently I must letting the wheel-man take me where he will. I know the final destination but yet fantasise about alternate routes leading nowhere. A path not taken..
I seem to be getting nowhere,
More importantly, I do not know WHERE do I want to go.