I want to make this a post about the existentialism of driving and the associated state of being. I want to write 'lyrical prose' about the feeling of flying,of being a part of the ethereal and of the endless dilemma of not knowing how or when to stop.The only thing stopping me is the unfortunate truth;I live and drive in Bangalore.I write this as I listen to Carla Bruni and think of a million mundane metaphors.
I remember so vividly;the crawl of my ten year old car and the drone of my diesel engine. The cars aligned across seven lanes on a three lane road.I think of all the expletives I know,in five different languages,over and over, in my head.I have them practised to perfection. I intend to use them when wayward drivers cross lanes.I know I will shriek and wreak havoc till I have the road to myself.Yes I will.In my head I will.
The traffic crawls,like a moulting arthropod mentioned in a distasteful metaphor, and this is where I know that my articulation has taken a beating.I can't swear anymore.I've forgotten all the curses that I had recollected during the hours I spent at the signals.The light turns green and there is a surge of movement.From an astral plane,the cars look like bacteria in a Petri dish.In the larger scheme of things,it all looks so minuscule.As humans,however,we are bound by the Kafkaesque sense of 'refutation' and our own self-approved significance.
I end by saying this much.Girl who spend entire weekend driving in Bangalore write blog with bad metaphors.