On my drive to work today, I crested a hill and saw lines of taillights illuminating a backup. They occasionally blinked, but most of the time they remained lit. Jerks switched lanes. I immediately checked my rear-view to make sure no one was riding my bumper, then I swerved off and turned down a side street. Better to take my chances with stop signs and back roads than inch forward until the traffic cleared.
The stick shift I drive has lost its clutch twice, and the idea of riding the pedals didn’t entice me. I have no car radio, which only magnifies dead time. Especially time inert.
I didn’t care that the detour was the exact opposite direction from my destination. At that moment, it dawned on me: I happily traded progress for movement. That’s how I live my life. Doesn’t matter if the momentum is lateral or even backwards, so long as I’m going somewhere. Stimulate the eyes. Only tax the brain as I mentally plot my newly evolving map.
This feels like an allegory to something much bigger. Once I figure out what that is, I’ll compose more on the topic.
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I believe many men equate movement to progress, especially on the road.
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