"...'but I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here?....
Sitting on the balcony. Sitting on the balcony with the plants and the water running below. None of it blocked the noise of the highway. Pockets of nature utterly failing to provide but the smallest distraction from the sea of asphalt. No...Not asphalt...just
concrete. Asphalt at least brings to mind the idea of the open road, images of adventure into the
American highway, blacktop playgrounds and outdoor basketball courts.
Concrete only evokes consumerism and commutes. How I have come to
loathe the commute. Locked in a steal bubble of futility sitting so close to others but with no sense of
community. Instead it is a civil war. Daily. No one has friends while in traffic.
Alliances are fleeting at best, and rivals are everywhere. There are other vehicles, not people. None of them are friends. There are those you tolerate and those that not only can you not tolerate, but
whose presence actually fills you with hate. Pure stark hate. Our cars have become like little homes. An
extension of our influence on the outside world. We even talk freely about "road karma" with little thought about how that concept applies for use when we are not behind the wheel.
...I don't belong here. She's running out the door. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want. You're so fucking special. I wish I was special. I don't belong here...
