Thirty Three Minutes

May 22, 2007

Harold blinked twice as he got onto the exit for Alberta St – from there, it was less than two minutes to where he worked. He yawned, and stretched his neck muscles, and smiled contentedly.

He glanced at the clock – a quarter past seven. He had been on the highway for thirty three minutes, and he didn’t remember a second of it.

He wasn’t sure when it had begun – zoning out while driving, that is. Sometime in the last year, he thought… it was hard to pinpoint. All he knew is that on his way to work, when the traffic was clear, the entire drive vanished in a haze of memory. He got onto the beltway, his thoughts drifted, and before he knew it, he was exiting at Alberta St, ready to go to work.

More than ready, even – he was refreshed. Zen, is what he called it to his friends. Like the monks, you know – he considered it a trancelike state of meditation. They all claimed to be very impressed, figuring it was more of a metaphor. Harold, though – he knew it was bigger than that.

I mean, most people hated their commute, can you imagine that? Harold felt so sorry for them. Every day he had to chance to tap into something fantastic, and let his worries and troubles be drained away. It was great!

His neck always felt a bit stiff at the end of it, sure… but that was a small price to pay, wasn’t it? In return for spiritual and mental refreshment?

Let’s hope Harold never finds out the truth. It really just wouldn’t be fair to him to ruin his happy dreams like that, now would it?

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