...it happens.
You can't control it, or force it, or learn it.
It's as wild and reckless and unpredictable as grace.
But every once in a while it happens.
You no longer think about the gear ratio (48/20, meaning a gain of 4.65), the temperature (33 degrees, just a touch above freezing), the wind (around 8 mph, from N/NW), or the traffic (surprisingly little for this time of day), and all of the meaningless data you compulsively mentally compute just bleeds away. You and the machine become one.
And you're not entirely sure when it began or when you fell out of it (because once you realize it's happening, it ends, like déjà vu), but then your iPod randomly queues up Counting Crows'
Recovering the Satellites, and with those opening chords (Ab, F#, C#), you know that, somehow, everything is going to be alright.
But we were gonna be the wildest people they ever hoped to see
Yeah, that's you and me
All in all, it's been a good morning.
-Nicholas Stanton Roark
Comments (3)
Cool post.
I love when you don't remember traveling the last ten blocks and you know that death could have found you between there and now and you wouldn't have noticed.
Nice writing~