My Home, Road

Crossing the Howard Franklin Bridge, momentary isolation occurs when the physical closeness of our man made objects distance itself from our visual sight, appearing and disappearing far into the distance like objects dancing in and out of our line of vision. The only thing that accompanies us is the never changing repetitive form of the roads and light post that's planted in them but there lack of solidity as they constantly swift by our sight keeps them from defining place as a solid matter but rather one of constant fluidity. The neighboring driver that passes by or lingers behind, only adds to the feeling of isolation, as their similar experience of the bridge puts them in their own bubble and when we're not seeking them out, we're enclosed by ours. Yet there is something that yearns for this isolated journey that we've embarked within physical vastness, as if this particular moment of the day was the final ingredient to render the overall day complete. The few minutes that is shared with the bridge, our body of thoughts becomes vacant where the bounding body of water becomes the depository for any human emotion. What we long to feel is nothing and within the landscape of nothingness, the mechanical mode of experiencing, observing, knowing, takes over, and our instinct commands the wheels to our vehicle. Swaying left and right, our bodies are dictated by the line drawn before us. We have forgotten to be humans and yet as we are deprived of such vacancy of thoughts throughout our daily ritual, forgetting allows one to seek for those human attributes.