She drove aimlessly, but with care, to not disturb the approaching gravel or oncoming headlights from the south bound, or perhaps the straggling pedestrian wobbling down the crosswalk. She knew they did not understand, nor care about the inner lining, the depths, the abyss, of her memories.
The birds would continue to cleanse the air with song, the bitter city folk would continue to curse the morning dove’s sweet coos, and she would suffer silently in the driver’s seat. Surrounding herself each new day, the same routine, with those who succumb to the hatred and green envy clouding their reality. Them always awaiting her next move, two steps ahead.
She sees them swiftly maneuver in between traffic, blinded to danger, their heads enveloped into the next hour. Because what was next was all that mattered. And her input was useless. They critiqued her longing for the past, while they lusted for the thought of minutes passing by.
Still, she proceeded with caution down the cluttered streets, growing more nervous on the edge of each minute. That she might possibly disrupt a neighboring worrier struggling to cross the street. She’d wonder if they would do the same.
She’d wonder if they would cherish every lasting lullaby from the nearest traffic jam. She’d wonder if they worry about finishing their 24 hours too quickly, or not quick enough.
Or would they cause the head-on collision, colliding two paralleling worlds in this puzzle of an inverted reality, leaving only the faint whisper of tomorrow’s early evening rush hour.