I always considered my car an
extension of my home, especially when I went to work at a job I couldn’t stand.
It was a refuge of sorts. A place to temporarily hide away from the tedium and
boredom. There was a long artery that connected to the back of my car,
stretching all the way back to the spot in front of my house where I parked.
It would serve as a place to catch a
quick nap on those rare occasions when one just needs to fall asleep even for a
few minutes of rejuvenation. It was a place to listen to the radio or get warm.
A chair for transfusion. It kept me tethered to the life that I considered my
real life, the real purpose of my life. It contrasted the non-career job that
only served as a means to an end, to the home-life it helped provide; a
vocational ground I suffered daily, painful, exsanguination.
My car was the vehicle in which I would go, on
most days, to pick up my kids from school and deliver us back to the nest,
where we would patiently wait, engaging with our books and papers and things,
for wife and mother to return as well. We would be reunited from the circadian
scattering into the world. A familial coagulation. I felt as though I had been infused and
made whole again.
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