Thoughts of no end

It is concerning really. That the sound of tires on an asphalt road is the medium I need to think. Almost like those who need white noise to sleep. It is a comforting presence. Not dissimilar to listening to rain while reading a book. It is almost entirely unrelated, yet there it is as if the sound is a bubble around one's mind.

My thoughts are far from idling in that bubble. They are racing. Swirling around and around. Some are faster than others. Some faded by still there. And some that consume the smaller ones. Those are the thoughts that are dangerous. The ones that drain. Quite literally leeching the colour from under my eyes. Yet I still think them. I still fuel them. I still hold onto them as one might hold a pen in an unforgiving exam.

The mind is a wonderful prison. An unforgiving source of imagination. It is a living, breathing beast that must be fed. My eyes seem to be the violent dictator. The one who chooses what in my environment is to be served next. I might see my grumpy neighbour's cat coughing up a fur ball in the hallway, but it is the large crack in my door covered with landlord paint that has been chosen as fuel. What caused the giant crack? A thief breaking down the door to steal imaginary money from the previous tenant or is it the concerning signs of faulty building construction?

Those are the easy thoughts. The harmless ones. The ones that don’t ask the deep questions. Why do I think the way that I do? Why am I the way that I am? Why am I me? These thoughts are like a lifelong wave. They never go away. They just occasionally surface for air in these moments. They trudge along like my tires on this road. Until a bump in the road wakes my train of thought from a stupor. Why am I thinking about this when I have asked myself this question first?

A loop. A race track. A pile up. Smoking rubble of thoughts and emotions. Difference. Thoughts are like lines of different lengths that poke. Like a kid with a stick and an unattended campfire. Feelings are like blotches. Blotches of colours. Like water paint pooling in certain spots and spreading in others. Sometimes they blend. Like one might rub blue paint in between their fingers until they get a bluish tinge of sickly skin. I like to think that those colours are forever dormant. A lightboard that is off. It is those thoughts that poke and turn them on. Connect them. Mix them. Aggravate them. The more they poke, the deeper the colour.

Tires. A road. Masterpiece. An expressive artwork that shifts. Moulding. Expanding. Evolving. It could be described as an ever-changing cycle, one might expect in Christmas lights synced to randomized festive songs. A donkey chasing a carrot it cannot reach. Hundreds of questions with no answers. Disappointing but addictive. It is a road that never ends, but the gauge runs dry.

It is amusing. The ticking of the fuel needle that inches slowly down while the horizon doesn’t change. The end is inevitable, yet fuel is not. An intermission is needed. Reflection. A breath. Yet no reprieve in sight. Just endless expanse and the cruise of tires. Such thoughts have never been so fat. No sleep tonight when my mind has so much grip. Like claws around prey. Concerning. Cycle of life. Necessity.

Scared. Consumed. Overwhelmed. Too many thoughts. Overfull cookie jar but too sugared up to eat any more. Need to stop, but thoughts are holding the steering wheel. The fuel line inches closer and closer to the end. But what is the end really? Where am I going? What road am I on? More thoughts. Losing control. Too much fuel. How did I get here? Why do I do this? Should I sell my car? How can I when I don’t know where I am?

Lost. Drowning in my own mind. The bubble is too full. It is ironic really. To pull over and burst that bubble just to turn around and be consumed once more by my own thoughts. So why not see where continuing takes me? Insanity or clarity? Horizon is fixed like a still picture, yet the fuel gauge is not. Is that a structure in the distance? I will think about it when I get closer. I have other thoughts to think about.

The smell of the new car refresher in a not-so-new car. The peeling fake leather steering wheel cover under my hands. The lingering cramp in my pedal pushing calf. Structure is bigger now. Fuel. Mind must be fed. Drink it down. Fill it up. Continue.

Crunching of tires on the road. Medium remember. It is a canvas, and I am the artist. What picture shall I paint? More time to think, to feel and to reflect. Time. More fuel. More road. Endlessness. Road with no destination, just an open expanse of imagination. Beast of a brain. Cycle of starvation. Loop of life. Infinite thoughts. One thought. Two thoughts. Three. Building and constructing a web. I am caught.

I am continuing. Where will I go in my mind? What wonders will I visit? What will I experience? What will I discover when I get no answers to my questions? Just more questions. More thoughts. More feelings. Lines and colours. An artwork that knows no bounds, yet inside the bubble. Is it freedom at all? Imagination is a world inside. The bubble is forgotten. No bounds needed when you are exploring the mind. No rules. Just expression and wonder.

My focus is off. Priorities fading. Overriding thoughts. Floating. In another world that is constrictionless. Do I keep going? The point of no return is endearing. It is exciting and daunting. Yet I continue all the same.

No fuel gauge. No petal. No steering wheel. Just the sound of tires on asphalt and endless road.