entry #408

Shit. The last several days ... weeks have been shit.

And I'm getting closer. It's getting closer.

At work this week I've been training new drivers. Preparing them for their upcoming CDL test. Every six months it's rinse and repeat. New faces. Same material.

"Check the tires. There must be at least 4/32" tread depth in every major groove on the front tires and 2/32" for the rear tires." And so on and so forth.

"Inspect the slack adjuster for broken, loose or missing parts. When pulled by hand the brake rod should not move more than approximately one inch." And so on and so forth.

"Signal your intentions."

"Communicate your presence."

"Spotting potential hazards."

"Always have a plan."

"Accident procedures."

"Care for the injured."

"Control."

"Inspect."

"Prepare."

"One mistake could cost the lives of many ... including yours."

And so on and so forth.

A lapse of judgment could silence your very existence. In a car. On a bus. Crossing the street. Peddling up a hill.

"Oh sh--!"

And you're gone.

In a running car inside a closed garage. In your bedroom surrounded by various pharmaceuticals. Standing on the sixth story ledge of a parking garage. In a deserted field with a packed pistol.

This isn't a tragic accident. There is no element of surprise. Only silent resignation.

You ponder how people will react to the news. Your family. Your friends. Coworkers. Elementary school classmates. The people -- practically strangers -- who know you only as "that one guy."

You think about the destiny of your journals. The ticket stubs from past concerts. The books. The records, the CDs and DVDs. Shoes. The furniture. Possessions that, in a matter of moments, will belong to no one.

You wonder about your inbox. Your mailbox. Voicemail. The electric bill. The spam. Electronic messages of concern. A voice recorded electronically says, "____, are you there? We're really worried about you. Please call me as soon as you get this so we'll know you're OK. Please call."

You don't want to become a traumatic memory forever embedded in someone's mind, but someone will discover you. And it will be messy. Shiny tissue. The material that belongs inside. Under flesh and bone. You hope your family won't be robbed of an open casket funeral. A final goodbye to a body that cannot respond.

"Communicate your presence."

"Prepare."

"Control."

You look heavenward.

"Signal your intentions."

...

And it's over.

The stereo plays the same song over and over and ...

The wind whips the leaves and invites itself inside through your open window.

A sparrow sings.

And you are silent. Still.

xx