If life is a highway, then I am the car broken down on the side of the road. Flecks of dust and smoke layer my rusting coat as newer, faster, better models pass me by. If rust was my sole problem, then this would not be worth the write. However, the rust is just a symbol of decay covered by dirt. With the simple hope, that no one will notice how bad I have gotten. A new a coat won’t fix the problem; it just hides it. There are still other vehicles. I will still gather dust. That’s what I do though. I slap on a new coat of paint. I smile. I laugh. I struggle pretty. Keeping up physical appearances, but scared to open the hood.
What’s under there? I can’t decipher what is broken and what is not. All I know is, I can’t go anywhere. I can play a tune to keep myself occupied, but singing songs is just a lyrical high. Temporary relief. Mindless redirection. Each song becoming shorter than the last. Until, there is nothing left to play.
What if I can’t be fixed? What if I sat in disrepair too long? What if the damage is permanent? A tow truck should gather me and dump me at a junk yard. Parts of me are good. I can be sold for parts. Tiny pieces carry value. I can play a song on the radio. I can windshield wipe years worth of tears. It’s my best function. Maybe, I can shine a light. Illuminate for others what I cannot see myself. If I can assist a passerby, shouldn’t I? It gives some value to this old broken down truck.
Why is the dump more appealing than The Mechanic? Why dump myself before diagnosed. I guess I’m just too scared to hear how broken I am. To have someone look past the dirt and cheap paint job and check under the hood. Under the hood, I cannot hide behind my tunes or wipes or light. The Mechanic sees my brokenness, and I hate it. Sometimes, I hate Him. I hate that He doesn’t allow me to live in disillusion. He will not let me live in my functional fantasy without acknowledgement to my frailty. He tells me I am broken, and I hate Him for it. Why can’t I fix it myself? I hate the agony of repair. Most of all, I hate the cost. I hate the way it drains my wallet. Repair empties me; repair fixes me. It gets me back on the road. I hate the Mechanic, but I need Him. I need to be repaired and He is the only one who can do it. I hate that, I have to rely on Him for everything. I am a car complexly engineered. I have spigots and gears. Why do I need Him? I guess everyone has a Manufacturer?
I need to be repaired. I cannot be sold for parts. Disambiguated. Being spread apart is worse than being broken.
Call the tow truck. Go to the Mechanic Manufacturer. Let Him fix you. You are broken. You can’t be sold for parts. You will not separate yourself. Be whole. Be repaired. Drive again.
Fixed. A new problem arises.
Where do I go from here?