In the metropolises where the cars were faster than the winds, I asked my friend “Are we really alive?”
He was so focused on steering the car and all I was wondering if we were meant to live in a place like this, where we have to breathe smoke and eat dirt every day. He gave me a brief glance before averting his gaze. He said, “Stop being crazy.”
“I’d like to,” I said. “I’d like to stop being crazy. However, there’s a chance that I’m the only sane person in this metropolis.”
His stillness thickened the air. I’m not offended if they call me crazy.. In fact, being insane in this society is a blessing.
How can we tell if we are alive if our lives are identical to those of the dead? Yes, we do breathe, but we do it while inhaling smoke. Yes, we eat, but it’s junk food. Smoking or eating is the idea of having fun, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, it’s both. This isn’t alive; in fact, I’m not sure we can even call it existing. We’re in a place where none of us wanted to be born. We’re neither awake nor asleep. We no longer walk, but rather run. And we’ll keep running till we reach the end of this dreadful existence.
I simply do not want to run any longer.
“Goodbye,” I muttered to my friend as I opened the car door while he was going 140KM per hour and I jumped.
The last thing I heard him say was, “Are you crazy?”
Then I awoke to the sound of Dermot Kennedy on the radio.
My friend was completely absorbed in steering the vehicle. He said, “Where do you want to eat?”
