The drive is scheduled,
how I work,
when I work,
who I work for.
The destination is scheduled,
when I get there,
how long it takes,
why I go,
what keeps me there until
what time.
It is all a matter of a predetermined schedule that
in the end
is not about me.
And yet it is my time that is being spent.
Every aspect of my
"free"
and "independent" being
is secured tightly to a slowly sinking ship by miles and miles of red tape,
layered thickly around me.
It is an artificial creation,
arbitrary,
and yet completely outside of my control.
Removing it's meaning
does not release me from it's binding,
just as senseless ******,
is still ******.
So as I sit in the driver's seat,
a passenger in my own life,
I roll down the window,
and extend one hand,
allowing the brisk air and bracing wind to sting me
relentlessly,
lifting me,
and I imagine the wind picking me up and taking me somewhere else,
if only to have the mask of authority removed,
and truly capitulate.
More than anything,
I reach out for something so shockingly cold
with such a great force
simply to feel something.