Driving to work

All the radio stations this morning were spewing unfunny, inane drivel.
Click. Jingly adverts. Click. Old Michael Jackson song. Click. Ring us
and rant about rubbish. Click. More annoying adverts. Click. Pompous
political preaching. Click. Click. Click... *sigh*



I switched to an Elfman CD. Celeste and strings and oohs waltzed haunting scissorhands themes. Drive-time soma.



Everything about my road was grey. The traffic was heavy, moving and
pausing in coordinated ripples. An image of cars in a grand waltz did
its best to form. The cars could all flow and weave in a huge
unchoreographed dance. The greyness could desaturate further to period
monochrome. Drabness would turn into understated style. I should be
longing for a video camera to capture this journey--my own art movie.



I wished. I imagined. No luck. My image didn't fit. The metallic
inchworm continued to stretch and contract its way down the bleak
branch. I focused on the music and forgot about my reluctant suburban
dance.



Please life, can I have some more?



Not for the first time I pondered the human condition of
dissatisfaction. In this comfortable car was sitting an adult human who has
all he needs for a satisfying and largely pain-free life. He has loyal,
caring friends. He has freedom to speak his mind and act as he desires.
He has opportunities for artistic expression in any number of media. He
has an almost inexhaustible supply of entertainment. He has a wide
sphere of influence in his professional and social life. Why would he
want more of anything?



He is human.