morning commute
the journey begins under a concrete bridge.
that's not quite true. i've been traveling for 16 minutes already, but i have only now become conscious of it. i am aware of the hands in front of me, gripping a steering wheel. i will remember this moment and not the previous 17 minutes. i will remember it, vividly and suddenly, like a flying insect inches from my face, in 8 hours and 28 minutes when i visit the same location backwards. i will remember it better than the moments in between, much to the chagrin of those waiting for me at my destination.
there’s a row of birds, morning doves if I were forced to guess, shelved between cement pillars and ceiling. i would presume that they are making noises but it's going unheard, buried beneath the sounds of gas engines and rubber on asphalt and rumbling cars on the overpass. they are common place here, but surely this is not enjoyable for them? were they not designed for grass and trees and the still hum of insects? do their skulls not rattle as vehicles pass overhead? does not my own?
a green light somewhere turns on. the person parked in front of me looks up from their food or their phone or some task they neglected before they got into the driver's seat and we are all allowed to proceed. its a race to the next one. someone designed these things with a certain timing in mind and they labored in vain. i hit the breaks hard.
i am in the sun now and it is unwelcome, jeering at me from eye level. i am getting mixed messages; some insist that i should on this journey now, give or take a few minutes, while the light in front of me tells me in no uncertain terms that my timing is all wrong and i am going the wrong way. her argument, in this moment, is much more compelling than the former. or perhaps i am simply inclined to believe her. in 8 hours and 26 minutes she will make the same proposition, and then i will vehemently disagree. i hope it rains tomorrow.