lost in translation

It’s 4 in the morning. Or maybe 5. I’m not sure what time zone I’m in. Did we spring forward? I think my spring may be broken.

I’ve been driving for six or seven hours, which in dog years doesn’t translate, since dogs don’t drive.

Another eight hours or so to go. Just an endless stretch of I-10, so no thought process needed. It’s the driving equivalent of a point-and-shoot camera, which in dog photography years doesn’t translate, since dogs don’t shoot photos.

In the distance are the lights of Las Cruces, a neon oasis with the promise of a new state on the horizon.

The truck stop coffee isn’t kicking in. I can feel myself drifting off. The mix of reality and dreams are lulling me, a dangerous siren song while hurtling along at 80 miles per hour.

I consider stopping. Maybe a rest area nap. A short break to recharge, a pause between the endless repeats of Dreamboat Annie. I have now listed to the album about 200 times on repeat, which in dog listening years doesn’t translate, because dogs don’t much care for Heart.

But stopping would require thinking in the place of the mindless exercise of staring at relentless white stripe. I don’t want to think. It’s all too much, and too little. Better to just drive.

I splash water on my face, throw back the last of the lukewarm coffee, and point the Honda toward the endless outskirts of El Paso.

Onward thru the fog. Even on a clear night.

About gary

no sock monkeys were harmed in the making of this blog.
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