Driving

As we disappear into our cars, we become our cars—these machines in a rush. With each turn, each brake, each push, we forget our pedestrian selves. Our patience, if it ever existed, dissolves, into disintegrating atoms, lost in the wind that ruffles our hair, at the roll of the window. We speed, we cut off, we beep, we change lanes, not knowing the inward workings of the souls around us encased in glass, steel, rubber, plastics and aluminum. Our senses heightened, eyeing every corner of moving headlights and blaring horns. Our minds wander, our fingers slip, our toes dig into the endless space of gas and glaring windows. We complain, we accelerate, we rage, we sigh as wheels slow, blue and red blare, and detours materialize. The time ticks. The sun sets. The night crawls. The birds caw. The fog settles. As we step out of our cars once more, are we still machines?

We charge on.

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