Where the 210 meets the 15 / by laurel

It is in these times that I find empathy in atmospheric conditions and weather reports.

Fog in the desert.

Not fog, clouds. I realized as I hurtled down where the 210 meets the 15 that it was not fog. The clouds, heavy with exasperation, simply couldn’t support their own weight and the result was a week-old helium balloon, drifting aimlessly against gravity. The ground had abandoned ship a long time ago; its desert-dryness couldn’t take anymore precipitation. It countered the whole eco-system of its desert-identity, anyway. So instead of raining, the clouds held back and simply lingered a few feet above the earth, tumbling and taunting while the ground reclined, stone-faced and stubborn. The traffic hummed along and halted, fast slow, fast fast, slow. There was almost an audible buzz of anxious electricity in the air. It was the kind of atmospheric restlessness that causes natural disasters, but instead it did nothing. It crouched. It waited.

And so I waited, too, battling the inner demons of restlessness. A placid front but turmoil within.

Turmoil’s too strong a word. That’s another thing; the dramatizations seem to be more vivid these days. Everything has a deafening finality, as if adding a period to the end of the sentence would give this unsettled life a purpose. Or at least a resting place. I can rest in over exaggerations as long as I can count on them.