Would you come around for a while?

 I am in the back seat of my car. Waiting. Listening. Singing alone to the melancholic tunes Hans Zimmer put his soul into. Yes, you might think that he doesn’t sing, does he? No, he doesn’t. But I do. It’s different waiting in the car. I am not sure what I am waiting for. Life? The red light? Both seem equally unobvious here where I am. I got liberated, you see, with my cold feet and warm hands, with my notebooks and a little epiphany. Is this where I spend the best of it? Contemplating the tiring desires of me as a person, questioning my role and slowly letting the time pass by amidst the travelers who are waving at me, thinking I am experiencing this moment as a stranger. Oh, how I wish they were right. Pardon me by the way, I don’t know the difference between a stranger and an outsider. I feel like the latter one today. Perhaps, every day. Perhaps I don’t know what feeling means. But I will get there. 

Sun is setting, and my feet are lifted up on the steering wheel. I can see my ankles; they look young. I don’t remember how old I am; perhaps I am old enough to not care anymore. But I do like birthdays. A day of extreme importance you see. It reminds me of the immense gravity of this existence, and with motivational passages suggesting I am as essential to this world as the beautiful mountains somewhere, I get disgusted. What is it that makes me essential? This moment of freedom from life I so dearly wished? The naivete in the sun-trenched soul of mine, withered around as if a storm passes through it every day, and yet is monumental and somewhat accidental; the mode of my own so solemnly condemned to be a bereavement and yet love the solitude like an insane; how can I expect to be essential? Let alone beautiful. My being is estranged; perhaps hanging by a tragedy so dear I can’t let it go, hoping for an equally tragic happiness. Look at me running for something so untraceable, impalpable, so unreal. Does feeling numb count as a feeling? 

I enjoy car rides. It’s existential, paradoxical, and it always demands my attention, my love, my care. I wonder if I could ever feel this way about anyone, not even myself. The way the road feels in my eyes, the sound of the breeze as I pass through someone, someplace, something – it’s a reminder that I am awake. I am away. I am on my way. To this destiny I no longer feel attached to, but it keeps me going; it keeps me on my toes, in myself, within the world and it keeps me as if I am  prisoner to my own self strangled between my thoughts and hoping for an unaltered revision to this world and to my crises which I think I like, but I try so hard to make me love them. There is nothing for me to love, so I love nothingness. My mind believes it, but my heart knows. 

Do I feel the necessity of my thoughts? Often. These thoughts that haunt me beautifully and caress me wildly. My own motive in this sand is unclear, but these thoughts – let me tell you – these thoughts are the messiah to my existence; they give me moments; they give me life; they give me timelessness. They make me prosperous, promotional, progressive, and they make me insanely perpetual. They make me insanely sane, as if I am standing above in turmoil with the politics of the hitherto silence, I need to face amidst thousands of other car rides and intentional crashes I can no longer pull off consciously; between the trepidation of mosaics and lilies so abstractly tainted in my front wall and the little bell hung on my door which has never been used; I face me. Everyday. Unwantedly. Nonchalantly. 

I am scared. To hold onto myself, or anyone for the matter. How long can solitude embrace loneliness? I think it’s time. So, hey stranger, would you come around for a while?


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