[16] Commuting

It has been a while fellow Earth lodgers.

What brings me back to this vortex of self indulgence? Well, I doubt I'll ever really cut the tugging strings. Temptation is too strong.

This morning, commuting. Driving to work as per usual. Down the M62. For the first time in a long time the ant line was highly apparent. Queing to take formation. None of these neighbouring cars were friends. None containing people I know. Yet we had one known common trait; we were heading in the same direction. Physically, not metaphorically.
I find it sad. We live in an age of isolation. Of individual shelter.

Guessing the backstory of a driver is a favourite game of mine. Their characteristic driving skills provide the basis mostly.
Man in suit, taking his time in the middle lane, adequate distance from the car in front. Highly controlled. Life is a line he draws. Business orientated no doubt with a wife he barely sees, no children and unquenchable thirst to achieve but unsatisfied with the breadth of his options in which he can do so.

The young man who rolls down his window, flicks his cigarette out and then proceeds in cutting across the front of my car in order to reach the fast line in which the brick falls and away he zooms. Inconsiderate, no care for his surroundings, potentially unfortunate childhood and an unknowing or even comprehension of what life is, what he holds and the potential he has to make a difference, somehow.

Then there is me. Middle lane. Analytical of everything in reaching distance of eyesight. Flick the wing-mirror down to check I'm not insane and that there is someone in the car listening to my thoughts. Curious of what lies horizontally in the fields, bored of the vertically unchallenging tarmac which proceeds.

Commuting. Tic tock. Tic tock.

[15]

Hooked on time. Obsessed. Truly I am.
Circling notions. Of beginnings. Of ends. Of long extended middles.

Attempting to understand the world. Before the world. Beyond the perimeter of our world.

The tips of the leaves lead me right back to the roots.
Past. Present. Future.
Relative. Time. Science.

How to make the best of a mistake?
How so much turmoil exists in the world when living is amazing. Physically, and scientifically amazing.
And yet some are so self absorbed in bubbles - [Round, iron leaded bubbles] - that they cease to comprehend the outcome of their actions. Infliction of pain. Ignorance.

A blind eye.
Gold plated segments are weighing the world down. Gravity must feel the strain. Surely.

[14] 2010

Numbers. Countdown to 12am. It's all numbers. 2010 is yet another number. Another day.

So here we stand. Or sit in my instance, contemplating what the year ahead will bring.
I envisage points, points of which are already set in stone yet in between the inconsistently spaced pointers is absolute emptiness. A pure blank canvas. Much like a flat, unbroken carpet of snow just waiting for that first imprint.

I can feel the momentum building.