Traffic of My Life
Traffic of My Life  short story stories

emmie588 Hello! Trying to write something good.
Autoplay OFF   •   10 months ago
The similarities between traffic and life.
. . .
This is probably trash, and I shouldn't post it. But I make impulsive decisions at night. Enjoy!

Traffic of My Life

Ever since I was young, I watched the flow of traffic. I sat adjacent to my dad by the rusty, red sign.

Eight years old by the stop sign near my house I ask my dad, "when will I be grown like you? When can I drive a car and have a job and responsibilities just like you?"

"Son, time goes fast and time goes slow. You never get to choose the tempo at which it goes.

When you want to move fast time will go slow, and when you want to go slow, it will always move fast. You may even find times when you wish to rewind.

Time is unlike the vehicles that can go in reverse by design. You'll find you've been living in the future, not the present.

Trust me when I say you'll want to go back when you're older and impotent."

White car, blue car, black car, white.

Sixteen and I sit by the stop sign near my house examining the cars as they go by. Some stop at the sign, some flow through, others simply fly past the sign like it wasn't even there.

I think of the similarities it has to life. Some flow through their life day to day, taking their time, enjoying what's at hand.

Some run through in the blink of an eye, anxiously waiting for the next big day. They run so fast they don't see the incoming car. You can guess the event that succeeds from there.

Others choose to stop, to run away from the terror of the world. They stop then they proceed on to what's next.

The question is: What is next? Another stoplight and another and another? Or is it highway after highway, nonstop travel success?

White car, blue car, black car, white.

Twenty-one and I drink my beer by the stop sign near home. I inspect the groups of cars going by. They come in classes, usually of three. Then there is none around the premise to see.

Another group approaches, another group gone. My family was there for me, they'll be back ever and anon. Cars come and they go; friends appear and then they're a no-show.

I wish I wasn't alone, but maybe the next group of friends is sure to come. When they are exhausted from stopping for of me, they'll move on, just like the red car on Mulberry Street.

White car, blue car, black car, white.

Thirty-five and I'm in my office by the window. I see the cars and the trucks speed by, breaking the limit.

I see the cars and the trucks mosey onward, Blocking the left-hand lane going 8 under. They make people angry and temper's run high.

One day they'll see these people are just living their best life.

Some people hurtle through life at breakneck speed. They are the ones unhappy and filled with greed. Some people take their time. They thrive in every moment, every laugh, every cry.

They are the ones happy with their current condition. But gleeful people disrupt the flow of the joyless. These gay people are unnatural and they depress.

How can one be at peace when others are raging to get by? They meander through the garden smelling the roses on the fly.

The others curse out the driver in front hating life and the bright blue sky.

They blaspheme and they cuss because they're always in disgust because life is just not as good as they thought it would be.

White car, blue car, black car, white.

Fifty-one in my office by the window. Cars crash and crumble just as your life's work can end in a jumble. The cars are totaled and towed away, away from the scene of death and dismay.

When I retire, I'll be traveling abroad. I'll be at a distance from the stamping ground of my accidents and fraud. When cars crash there's not much to say.

Just give comfort and grace then be on your way. I don't have much to reveal; I'm unoriginal and I steal. And just like that some cars pass by: white car, blue car, black car, white.

Sixty-seven and I sit by the stop sign near home. I have crashed and burned, and there is no return. Retirement is unreachable, moving away is far gone.

My friends have betrayed the pattern of the cars. No one has returned, no new ones have come. But, like a Bugatti, time went by in a flash. I had all this time and none was spent right.

One thing I did do equitable was spending each day at the stop sign with my dad.

If only I took his keywords to heart, maybe I wouldn't be standing in the middle of the road waiting for a car to trample me to death.

White car, blue car, black car, white.

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