Old Commutes

Backseats make me feel nauseous,

the stop and start of break peddles resembling no adrenaline ride I’ve ever experienced.

Sending me forwards and backwards at the same time.

Offering no predictable markers except for the number of miles between here and a destination.

Ten minute distances become ninety minute ones, adding three minutes to your arrival time in increments.

The kinds that are known as notifications but not as news.

Announcing with the nonchalance of a menu that things are moving slowly.

Yet still leaving you nauseous, as cars struggle to agree on a traffic pattern.

Even something simple, like stop or go. Stop and go, they try instead at the same time.

I look around and wonder where the crowding originates, because there are fewer cars than their apparent impact.

Taking me somewhere I’ve been before.

Somewhere I am undecided but not ambivalent.

Somewhere I am going by choice.

Somewhere I also left by choice.

Somewhere I dressed up for, keeping my energy covered underneath jackets and blouses, layers of clothing purposefully worn.

Somewhere my eyes just can’t close, though they’re tempted to.

Like one does when they feel nauseous, and their need for assessment takes over.

Counting their breaths with the seconds.

Cooling their skin with each exhale.

Careful what they inhale.

Careful in general.

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Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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