kittenscribble | (this morning's commute)

Someone has taken a brush and painted across the world. Gray of clouds reflects on pavement, on cars; watercolor shades blunt the greenness of grass and trees. Edges are gone. The tail lights of other cars peer back at me with red, gleaming eyes. Droplets of water spray across my roof and windshield, providing an uneven drumbeat of background sound. In this landscape, the news broadcasts on the radio seem strange, unreal; I flick a button and surround myself instead with soft singing, jazzy piano notes. Isolation complete: wind and water outside but I'm enclosed, warm and dry.

Traffic piles up suddenly on the other side of the interstate, white-yellow headlights paused in ragged parallel. I had not marked the cause but the result is clear: wet pavement full of stopped cars. I feel a distant empathy for them, for their helplessness and puzzlement. My side of the highway continues along smoothly, but with differences. The blue sedan had been tailgating the white station wagon; now it backs off, gains distance. Mortality as reminder: life is more important than timeliness.

I have my blinker on even before I realize that I've reached my exit ramp; the green sign had become invisible behind slick green leaves. I've put navigation on autopilot. The rest of me is busy staring outside, watching the disappearance of the familiar. Water slides down the windows, filming over the passing fields.

Forty minutes in the car but when I finally pull into my parking space, I'm still not quite certain where I am.