I’m slow off the line, always have been. I don’t know what the rush is all about, anyway. We’re all hurtling towards different points of space, all of which are cemented in place, going nowhere. Great marble slabs of permanence, fixed, like so many letters etched into the courthouse wall, hovering in a holding pattern while the world whisks by.
Sure, you may get there a moment before I do, but have you gained anything, really? It seems as if the highway turns into this Gran Turismo, bullets of metal ripping through the air, looking for their target, straining against one another to make that lane change, that light, that clear space devoid of big rigs and handicapped drivers.
The truth is, we’re all heading to the same spot, that outlying sunscape past the horizon. Sure, you may have to pick up some milk, maybe the dry cleaning, but all roads lead to nowhere. And everywhere. And somewhere in between. We’re zipping forward, careening past the mundane, riding that ray of sunshine into the Greatest Star ahead.
Stop and smell the roses, they say. The present is a present, they say. We’re all in a hurry to slow down and retire, stodgy, dusty, and altogether unused. The pages have grown thin, and yellowed, and we’re left to wonder how much of that hurriedness slowed us to this effect. Did we fly at breakneck speeds, only to have the engines sputter before their time?
So, should we enjoy the moment? Sure. Will it seem as nothing in light of eternity? Perhaps. Did the clouds ever look so grand when you finally slowed to savor them? I doubt it. Call me an old man, but I’ll take a book, some coffee, and a front porch swing over the race of rats any day. But, that’s just me. I’m still crawling off the starting line. Wave, at least, when you pass, will ya?