May 2013
Whenever I’m in a car for a long period of time I always end up watching the road
You know those journeys that go on a lot longer than you expected and all you have to entertain yourself with is your iPod, which leaves your eyes with nothing to do other than scan the horizon or gaze down onto the tarmac while you zoom over it, the white lines blurring into the black as if it were a painter’s pallet blending perfectly to form a rainbow of tone,
I close my eyes and in my mind I pan out to view a city in its entirety, I always picture a tree-like form, stretching out, reaching, a never-ending strive for dominance over nature, as humans build more and more over the earth, suffocating the soil, making the trees cry out in pain as we cut off they’re food, I heard someone say with pride in they’re voice:
Roads are like to artificial veins of the land that pump the blood of people around so as to stay fluid and alive.
Alive? All I can see are the remnants of accidents. Smudges smeared, splayed all over the road. Skid-marks. Each skid-mark stands for a person that was a little too wrapped up finding a song on the radio, or a man rushing to the hospital so he can see his beautiful baby boy for the first time. Or maybe those skid marks stand for a car that lost control because the driver could not see the red light on account of his vision being blurry. Accidents. As if calling it an accident removes all blame, ‘It was no ones fault – it was a mistake/ an error/ a slip-up/ a mishap/ an oversight/ a miscalculation/ an inaccuracy/ a lapse/ an omission/ an accident.
What if the skid-marks are the pollution-covered fingerprints of god, left as memories, when he reached down into our atmosphere to cradle the souls of those whose time had passed.
Although this place if filled with death, its disturbing how most people do not give a second thought as they zoom over a graveyard, rushing past the last landscape some would ever see. Ignorant as to what has taken place. Most people look at roads as lifelines, the umbilical chords to the world around them, not as a weapon, used strangle the innocent people who just wanted to get home before rush hour hit.
Whenever I’m driving down the highway that takes me from home to you all I can see are the blood-covered corpses strewn all over, all I smell are the cancerous fumes radiating from the upturned cars surrounding me as if I were thrown in a junkyard, disregarded in spite of the life still diffusing through my bloodstream like I deserved nothing more than to rot and corrode in the dirt that now encompassed my body. All I can hear are the piercing screams ringing out of my nine year old carcass as I lay in a metal like box that had people stunned as to how anyone could survive. They said I was lucky, that I should be thankful.
Do these scars resemble some kind of fruit bearing vines, capable of bringing new life into this world?
Lightning strikes of judgment that have been forked into my forearms drawn by shards of glass that decided my milky white skin was missing a touch of red, as they carved a game of noughts and crosses into my skin. I was pulled out of that rubble; and guess what – no one won.
You know those journeys that go on a lot longer than you expected and all you have to entertain yourself with is your iPod, which leaves your eyes with nothing to do other than scan the horizon or gaze down onto the tarmac while you zoom over it, the white lines blurring into the black as if it were a painter’s pallet blending perfectly to form a rainbow of tone,
I close my eyes and in my mind I pan out to view a city in its entirety, I always picture a tree-like form, stretching out, reaching, a never-ending strive for dominance over nature, as humans build more and more over the earth, suffocating the soil, making the trees cry out in pain as we cut off they’re food, I heard someone say with pride in they’re voice:
Roads are like to artificial veins of the land that pump the blood of people around so as to stay fluid and alive.
Alive? All I can see are the remnants of accidents. Smudges smeared, splayed all over the road. Skid-marks. Each skid-mark stands for a person that was a little too wrapped up finding a song on the radio, or a man rushing to the hospital so he can see his beautiful baby boy for the first time. Or maybe those skid marks stand for a car that lost control because the driver could not see the red light on account of his vision being blurry. Accidents. As if calling it an accident removes all blame, ‘It was no ones fault – it was a mistake/ an error/ a slip-up/ a mishap/ an oversight/ a miscalculation/ an inaccuracy/ a lapse/ an omission/ an accident.
What if the skid-marks are the pollution-covered fingerprints of god, left as memories, when he reached down into our atmosphere to cradle the souls of those whose time had passed.
Although this place if filled with death, its disturbing how most people do not give a second thought as they zoom over a graveyard, rushing past the last landscape some would ever see. Ignorant as to what has taken place. Most people look at roads as lifelines, the umbilical chords to the world around them, not as a weapon, used strangle the innocent people who just wanted to get home before rush hour hit.
Whenever I’m driving down the highway that takes me from home to you all I can see are the blood-covered corpses strewn all over, all I smell are the cancerous fumes radiating from the upturned cars surrounding me as if I were thrown in a junkyard, disregarded in spite of the life still diffusing through my bloodstream like I deserved nothing more than to rot and corrode in the dirt that now encompassed my body. All I can hear are the piercing screams ringing out of my nine year old carcass as I lay in a metal like box that had people stunned as to how anyone could survive. They said I was lucky, that I should be thankful.
Do these scars resemble some kind of fruit bearing vines, capable of bringing new life into this world?
Lightning strikes of judgment that have been forked into my forearms drawn by shards of glass that decided my milky white skin was missing a touch of red, as they carved a game of noughts and crosses into my skin. I was pulled out of that rubble; and guess what – no one won.
