GPS—Time of Arrival is 3:25
Tedious green crawls across the window of the car. They spread as far as eye can see, reducing the outside world to a mind-dulling sheet of celadon. Hauntingly bereft of other vehicles, the road appears wider than normal, but this is a good thing, I tell myself. Other cars will simply stretch the journey.
The sky languishes a flat blue, and a thick layer of slate clouds swallows the sun’s illuminance. The horizon line lurks impossibly far at the end of the never-ending road. No matter how fast or far I drive, it never creeps any closer.
An acrid weight presses against my stomach as I push the car’s pedals, propelling it forward. I have not been driving long, and the GPS promises that our travels will soon come to end. There is no reason for the pit gnawing at my insides, but yet, I cannot shake the feeling this peregrination intends to endure.
GPS—Time of Arrival is 5:12
Our arrival has been delayed. I believe this postponement might be caused by the speckling of cars that have joined my road. At first, their presence brought relief, a slackening of the shoulders, an upward twitch of the lips. In the ceaseless monotony of barren grasslands, my thoughts had started to shout louder than the engine. I welcomed the slaughter of solitude, but my smile soon faded as the adjournment of our arrival followed.
I could pull off onto the next exit – another isolated stripe of asphalt. The GPS states that it might even diminish the travel time, but my fingers refuse to turn the steering wheel. They remember seclusion’s mental torment of stentorian pandemonium.
As long as no more cars enter the road, it will be fine, I say. I hope.
GPS—Time of Arrival is 6:10
Swarms of vehicle devour the endless stretch of concrete. Only slivers of grey peak through the suffocating shroud of automobiles. I am curled tight between two cars as a third tailgates me from behind. I honk desperate pleas for space. None is given. The fearless vehicles dart into the minuscule cracks between us, weaving through the lanes as if they wish to see as many cars as possible.
Suddenly, one of the weavers slams into another like its brake abandoned their function. The world erupts in a series of crunches and shrieks.
GPS—Time of Arrival is 7:02
When I can, I don solitude like armor now. I cling to the barren openness, the miles of desolate caliginous concrete. Every time a vehicle invades my road, the crash flashes before my eyes.
I see my car, suffering only slight damage to the engine, yet it has never run the same again. I see the others—their smashed doors, fragmented glass, punctured tires. I see flames rioting across their crunched metal shells and gaping innards. I see the cars that will never drive again, mostly older models.
I push harder on the gas pedal in an attempt to bring the journey’s end closer, but as my radio reports hundreds of new crashes that promise slowed speeds ahead, I know my efforts are worthless.
GPS—Time of Arrival is 8:17
GPS—Time of Arrival is 9:28
GPS—Time of Arrival is 10:15
GPS—Time of Arrival is 11:25
Sometimes, I can see other roads, the busy ones. It’s carnage. The wrecks pile upon one another, metal mountains of devastation. It almost seems like people purposefully ram their cars into each other as if they have forgotten that collision will follow or perhaps have simply stopped caring – the never-ending delay of arrival chiseling away until only callous apathy remains.
It would be dishonest to say that did not corrode me as well.
GPS—Time of Arrival is 12:21
GPS—Time of Arrival is 1:16
GPS—Time of Arrival is 2: 06
I can no longer imagine what it will be like to leave the car. My hands are welded to the steering wheel. My foot glued to the pedal. My joints locked in achy ninety degrees angles. I do not even know if I will be able to. Rising from the seat feel impossible. Walking is unfathomable.
Looking at the time of arrival feels like praying to nonexistent god. The destination is an intangible phantom, a wraith constantly slipping through my stiff fingers.
GPS—Time of Arrival is 2: 17
I hate the GPS. The sight of it scalds my skin, gnarls my lips, ravages my heart.
I pry one rigid hand from the wheel. I grab the device. I smash it against the window over and over and over again.
GPS—Time of Arrival is
I
GPS—Time of Arrival
Can’t
GPS—Time of
Do
GPS—Time
This
GPS—
Anymore.
Tedious green crawls across the window of the car. They spread as far as eye can see, reducing the outside world to a mind-dulling sheet of celadon.
The sky languishes a flat blue, and a thick layer of slate clouds swallows the sun’s illuminance. The horizon line lurks impossibly far at the end of the never-ending road.
No matter how fast or far I drive, it never creeps any closer.