Daydreaming

Noé B

0

As I fall into a morning reverie, the snooze button softly lulling me to sleep, I am tantalized by the itch of having to face the day. Upright in my bed I stand, resembling a vampire awakened by the torment of sunlight. The morning has nothing auspicious; it resembles the routine of weekdays. However, my eighteenth birthday was a week ago and I am legally an adult. When I brush my teeth, be they the teeth of an adult. When I put on my pants, be they the pants of an adult. The sky is grey from dawn and soon, I am sitting in my car. I notice the cumulus of clouds forming shapes that seem to hang over my head. This adult head of mine is deflated and anguished. Through the eventuality of a meeting with a friend North of town, I am prompted to start the engine. Brenda, the Toyota Corolla named after an old friend, roars gently. The day is opaque; it is hard to decipher what haunts it. Perhaps it is the absence of my father, perhaps it is the dissatisfaction I have with the slowness of things, the languor of days passed. All I know is that I am blue. Through the Bluetooth of my computerized car, I play “Daydreaming” by Radiohead. I whisper along to the lyrics as my car serpentines down the roads of the hill, “beyond the point of no return.” The melody echoes and inhabits the walls as though finding a family picture in an old antique store, rekindling a lost memory. It was here before I heard it, now it is in my head, I can no longer let go of it. The boulevard is crowded with machines, fitting into a line and slowly marching one step after the other, sometimes honking. The wait is unbearable and I torsion my legs within the enclosed space where the pedals fit. Where the pedals fit. I am told by another machine to enter the freeway, then to exit the freeway. Time is fleeting, and there is no glimpse at another truth than the emptiness I am overwhelmed with. Are these my hands, turning this wheel? Is this my leg, pushing forth this beast? Such questions loge into my brain and escape me. I am only to look. I no longer look. I no longer look. The speed of the event is stark. I am struck by a mass. My eyes are closed. My eyes are closed. For an instant I discern the unfolding of a line. This image is my life; it is the brightest light. I open my eyes to a reality I could never bear. Yet it is mine.


Description

This is the most precise recollection of the day. The toughest pain is the silence of a lost memory.