10.11a

I actually need to write several today because I stink at writing these hooray.

My life is like a rickshaw.
(I don't yet know why, but I just feel like it is. Let me explain on the fly, because I haven't heard of it before.)

I'm on a trip. I feel like I'm in a different country, and I need to get from here to there and I'm doing it as fast as I can. I am going somewhere, but I don't feel like I'm changing on the way. I can smell and see and hear things but I can't stop to savor them. I have to run past. I'm going to have to pay for my trip, and I don't know the person I'm paying, so I begrudge it.

The road is bumpy. I'm going to wake up bruised and the worse for wear. I don't feel like the person pulling the rickshaw really cares what I'm feeling or how I'm suffering, and all of my cries of pain have no effect on the back of their unfeeling head. I can see other people walking, jostling through a crowd, or being pulled in their rickshaws. Each ignores the others' cries. I can't help, so I ignore as well. It causes less pain for me. It doesn't change my desire for them to notice me.

The one thing I am sure of is that someone is pulling my cart. But I don't pay attention to the rickshaw driver. I can't tell if he's talking to me anyway, so I don't think I'm missing anything. I've told him my destination, but I realize that he might take me his own path, off the main road, because he knows the town. He might even take me to the wrong place, because we aren't speaking the same language. I'm not even sure I got the name of the place right.

But God knows where I'm going and I'm glad he's pulling me.