Lost Limo

I’ve been taken for a ride by comfort. I saw a flashy car, a limousine for reprobates maybe or a vastly upgraded landfill-born piece of rust perhaps, and the back door was opened, and I approached, I got in. Why did I get in? It looked entertaining. It appeared fun, relaxing, easy, comforting.

Comforting. Comforting. The devil lives inside that word. Its bedroom is the first o, its lounge is in the second. Comfort locked me to unconsciousness. Comfort brought me to malaise.

But comfort feels positive initially. But then comfort becomes comfortable. And after comfort’s comfortable comes the rot.

How do I get out of the car? Yes, I’m still inside it. I’m writing this hanging out of the back window. I’m still strapped in. My legs are in the car. My torso hangs out in the air. My mind is in between. It can sense the air, it is surrounded by comfort.

I am shouting, mildly. It’s a quiet sos. It’s an attempt to burst from the quicksand. I live inside the quicksand. I don’t want to live there. No, no longer.

I’m going to spend so much more time inside the car. I can feel it already. Although I protest against it, although I rally for support, demanding the abolishment of cars. I know, after the event, I will drive one home. I contradict. I say one, do the other. I want to do something better. I won’t. I will be there again. With comfort.

What is the ruling? When will my beheading commence? Jail my brain, tie it to the sails of a passing yacht. The water is where I should be. Freezing cold ocean. Boats are better cars. Boats tease. Boats test. There’s comfort in spaces. Where is the boat of my life? Where is the freezing river? How do I escape a world of cars? How do I find a better way to be?

[10.06.2023]