Building Blocks and Broken Clocks

I usually enjoy driving this road. It has long stretches punctuated by curves and hills. In the daylight it is scenic but tonight there isn't much to see. The sides of the road are marked by large drifts of dirty snow. Behind the snow are trees, dark evergreens whose color is invisible even in the headlights. Beyond the trees on the left is the lake. The immense dark water is occasionally visible in the dim moonlight.

Cells, cells, cells. Gods Lego. That's all we're made of. Put me together and take me apart again. I was broken into pieces, little bits of Lego lost in 1970's style shag carpeting. You found all the pieces and put me back together again. There's too much for me to say now, so maybe I'll just write it down.

Trickledown like clockwork on the back of my head. Thoughts are raining into my mind; water pouring into an empty room. Your eyes are seductive with understanding.

A cluster of acidheads in tie-dye and blood-shot stand on the overpass watching the ripple of traffic lights from green to red to gold and finally back to red.

These lights go on for miles and miles and probably never stop.

I feel strange. I hope it storms. I imagine sometimes I will grow old this way, thinking things. seeing things. Perhaps.

I feel a tightness in my chest. I turn the heat down. I unbuckle my safety belt and unzip my coat. It's not enough. I crack the window and cold air floods the car. I force myself to take deep breaths. That seems to help. Sometimes at night my throat starts to go tight and I can hardly breathe.

I don't love death. In fact, I love life, but life can only continue in the face of death. Strange really. Broken foot, broken jaw, rabbit lying in the grass not moving. Did I shoot it? Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?

Your trust in rationality makes you irrational. Maybe I like being irrational though. Some of the best things in life are illogical, irrational. Love is random, illogical, irrational. Fear is inevitable.

I turn on the radio, something to distract my mind. I get a talk show discussing US intervention in Bosnia. I push the button: an oldies station playing fifties music. I push again and get dance music. Again, and get another talk show. I push a few more times, lose patience, turn it off.

Maybe all my work is for nothing. Like running hurdles. Work so hard, jump over every one, fast, high enough but no higher, because you can't afford to hang in the air. And then, when the race is over, you're dripping with sweat, either they beat you or you beat them ... and then a couple of guys come out and move the hurdles out of the way. Turns out they were nothing. All that work to jump over them, but now they're gone.

The posted speed is 45; I'm doing about 60. Part of my mind tells me "there is ice, this is dangerous" but I don't care. I've seen only a few cars out tonight. I cross over the line on curves and don't think about slipping.

I drive along in silence. I become aware of something sticky on my thumb. I turn on the inside light. I raise the thumb to my eyes: it's blood, from a crack in dry skin. I am relieved and surprised at the same time. Lately I always seem to be bleeding a little, somewhere. Cracks in my fingers, paper cuts, razor cuts, nosebleeds.

I think that at the end of the day, as long as someone looks at my work and remember it, it matters. Maybe it'll outlive me. I hope it does.

The End

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