Imagine you are driving along some dark
country road, it’s raining and you have limited visibility. Even though you are
in this two-ton metal cage moving faster than any animal (face it, you have
animalistic tendencies, you pervert) should move that’s not what’s concerning
you. Because your sight is limited further by that soul crushing introspection
that just must happen at this precise moment.
What am I doing with my life?
How
come I did drunk-pull-ups at the Christmas party 3 years ago?
Why am I not a famous rock
star when I took piano lessons for 10 months in my tweens?
Thump. Yeah, thump! (No, not Trump, Jesus)
Imagine that. Suddenly when you were approaching real Descartes level shit a
body hits your car. You slam the breaks without thinking. The car stops, your
hands squeeze the steering wheel. There is a body on the windshield. Now let us
get real, let us get down to the real question: Do you, as an act of pure
instinct, turn on the windshield wipers? - Since after all there are some
profound shit on your windshield most people would not want there.
I think I would.
But how do you explain that to the police
officers later when the pedestrians face is gently smeared back and forth as
you yell that he “appeared out of nowhere”. And by the way is nowhere the
place we go to when we stare into the abyss that is our self loathing?
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| Fuck, I left the door open. Maybe it's because I secretly crave intimacy? Maybe not. |
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