"On the surface, the Parasite
expects the doctor to heal them
for free, the farmer to feed them out of charity. How little they differ from the pervert who prowls the streets, looking for a victim he can ravish for his grotesque amusement." - Andrew Ryan

No Gods.
No Kings.
Only Men.

"Almost all of our desires, when examined, contain something too shameful to reveal."

I wrote a story on a napkin in a bar a long time ago. The man in my story was lost in his own thoughts as he drove. Consumed by his music and his mood. The dark night around him was lost to his consciousness. The act of driving too mundane and habitual to focus on. Instead, he dissolved into a world of his own making as his car was struck head-on by a semi. He never even noticed, so unaware and detached he was. In the story, something possesses him to look out the window and he sees clouds. Glancing downward to where the road should have been, he sees the emergency teams trying in vain to revive his lifeless body.

I would like to believe that man is still driving. He’s my creation, but I never wrote a designated ending and now I wonder if he would continue driving.

Would I?

If I saw myself as something separate from myself, would I return to normal if given the choice? If I saw my body, would I crawl back inside this dismal shell? Heavy and burdensome as it is? Confined within my prison for God knows how long? I don’t think I would. I think I would recognize and embrace my freedom. I think I would keep driving. And I think he did too. Through the clouds, over the trees, past the moon and into the stars. Forever. Driving… forever.