Tonight, I rode down a thousand-mile road that I have traveled every day of my life -- on which I am continually finding new trees or housing developments -- and wanted to drive ahead until I could not possibly, physically, steer any longer.
I was on that cusp that blurs the margin between temporary and perpetual. If you're a driver, you've met it at the gleaming altar of your dashboard. You've discovered Excalibur, your odometer.
The sensation built up and broke out. I felt like screaming -- at no person in particular, and at everyone simultaneously. I wanted to touch God. I wanted to accelerate into oblivion. I wanted to be nothing from nowhere, no one at all.
Instead, I prayed.
I was on that cusp that blurs the margin between temporary and perpetual. If you're a driver, you've met it at the gleaming altar of your dashboard. You've discovered Excalibur, your odometer.
The sensation built up and broke out. I felt like screaming -- at no person in particular, and at everyone simultaneously. I wanted to touch God. I wanted to accelerate into oblivion. I wanted to be nothing from nowhere, no one at all.
Instead, I prayed.
