Commuter sickness
"I don’t fit in. That’s the problem."
She says it with a decisiveness that reminds me of old wood. Old furniture. Oak and chestnut, polished a thousand times. Repainted and recoated with thin layers of expensive nourishing substances, but never really touched.
"Every night I drive home together with thousands of other commuters. We crawl down the highways in our pompous shiny cars. And then I feel it: I don’t fit in. I’m always driving out of pace. People get bothered driving behind me. I don’t know why. They don’t want to be around me. I’m keeping too much distance, I guess."
She says it with a decisiveness that reminds me of old wood. Old furniture. Oak and chestnut, polished a thousand times. Repainted and recoated with thin layers of expensive nourishing substances, but never really touched.
"Every night I drive home together with thousands of other commuters. We crawl down the highways in our pompous shiny cars. And then I feel it: I don’t fit in. I’m always driving out of pace. People get bothered driving behind me. I don’t know why. They don’t want to be around me. I’m keeping too much distance, I guess."
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