Move over me. I’ve been driving me all wrong. Let someone more experienced in accidents take the wheel. No more pressing cruise control to the coffin. If only I could unseat myself from my potential lives. Let someone else do some of the hard driving.
I scan the horizon for signs of worry or anxiety. I let go of my gaze to let them graze on a herd of sorry worries. These grazers always find something to chew even if it is a stray thought. They grow larger than life, threatening this vehicle off-road one last time.
See, can’t even drive straight with Death smoking me with her one good eye. Let her take the wheel for once. Tell me which solvent will unglue me from my plastered cells.
I never considered I’d go up and down with each blind blink of a cursor or turn signal like a yo-yo. I don’t even think I have a license to drive this heap while others streak without a degree. I just fell into driving since I was a babe. The wheel grew with me.
I just felt life is lived best between the wheel & rubber. I just got tired of resurrected life crashes. Pump me with pills, I’ve got taxes to pay. Like a pit stop, they patch me up and glue me to the driver’s seat with Death as my handler.
How do I abdicate from my bucket seat yet keep my vehicle pointed in its natural inclination? It’s as easy as Alladin and Robin Williams, but Death may be onto me. This time, I’m ready to be unstuck. Only she & God know my attachments better than I.
When I tire of Death’s playlist and tired of Keith Richard’s pretense, there will be no awkward silences between mortal foes. Only one knows the sting of Death. We will melt into each other like venial sin on warmed butter. Till maybe Death has a reason to keep us straight on course. To know the thrill of roadkill and the terror of tires.
The best highs, in my experience, are always the ones shy before the camera. They are much too nimble to be caught drunk driving. They are the highs that highs are chasing found in the sleeping dirt of a loved one. The best highs are when I let go down to the clutch of the last beloved atom. Then who will drive my automobile?
How can I stand all the dings throughout life without insurance? If proof of insurance is required, take a walk outside. If this is a rental then that explains the sorry state of our warming planet. Keep my eye on the emptiness of winning a prize if it costs everything down to the last clutch to understand gratitude.
Trust. Trust Death will take the wheel gladly. Trust She will take to steering. Trust the road or ravine. Trust the rust in our hearts. Trust I will land like ballerina penguins on the sand or wherever. Trust love is showing up be you bitch or human.
I’m done driving this vehicle called my life. Death has always been at my wheel. I went off-road more often than need be said. What I learned in the jungle & jingle: I need to get out of the way. If I can ever be free from the pedal, I need to stop stepping on it. When I am no longer obscure, I let the light shine in & out. When I no longer cruise drive or not, I’m free to enjoy the view worry-free. I am free to be present or not.
Death will be glad to cull her quota if I take my eye off the road or the present moment before everyone reading. Perhaps I should drive.