On the snowy, busy highway, I realized I wasn’t actually driving. Yes, I sat behind the wheel of the car, feebly transporting myself from A to B. I held my breath and neck rigid: hands at ten and two. I cringed every time a braver soul chastised me by zooming past. The world was in a hurry; its citizens alive and well, twitchy and careless. I kept my distance from these relaxed fools, panic itching to pierce my slow-moving bubble. Ten and two. Radio off. Ten and two. I believe more in my brain’s traction than my tires. My brain, however, isn’t always so sure of me.
Permissions and comforts