There’s a bike, but what color is it?
Blue. But it’s debatable. It’s pretty dusty, covered in rust and the paint torn off through use and occasional neglect.
We’re going so fast we get annoyed when we have to spend twenty seconds at a stoplight. We need to get home, get home, come on, move GOD DAMMIT! just so that we can get home to a television screen or a silver or white box with a glowing apple on it.
We’re so busy going everywhere that we never notice that we’re never going anywhere.
We never notice where we are because we always want to be somewhere else so we keep working at it and trying to make an extra dollar or two that we end up spending where there was no need.
And maybe I keep saying we and meaning me because this is my experience, this is my disease, this is my neurosis.
I don’t even know what neurosis means, it just sounds like the right word for this.
I gave up believing in religion a while ago. So now, I believe in that blue bike that you can’t even tell is blue anymore. Half the time I don’t notice it, either. And by half, I mean more like 99 percent of the time.
So now I’m riding that blue bike, even if it looks more like it’s a grey or a brown. I’m on that bike and I’m trying to get somewhere besides the concrete boxing me in because this is my natural habitat but sometimes you want to break free but it feels just as impossible as flying to the moon.
But it’s just a bike. It’s a fucking bike. And there’s a park across the two lane highway where I could ride it and enjoy the squirrels’ natural habitat for a change.
So I keep riding my bike but I can’t decide which way to go but I can’t stop now so I’m headed into the city where I’m going to see the people, where there are more blue bikes like mine.