Swerve left
Swerve right.
Swerve left
swerve right.
Imagine our roads as circuits
in a video game,
and the shortest path to your destination
is never a straight line,
nor a curve.
It’s a series of segments,
each taking off where the last one stopped,
taking off without a firm handshake,
like it had to kill another
for it to be born.
Imagine our lives
like the blue bars on the top right of the screen
slowly turning red
with every hit.
All that matters is how much our blue
outlasts the others.
Let their red flow,
let our blue grow.
We, the players, drive through this mosaic of lights,
ambushing each other
within a hair’s breadth,
dodging,
threatening,
dribbling through
like Messi or Ronaldo.
There are no red cards here,
and no goals either.
We can weave our way as much as we want,
but touching’s not okay bro.
That’s when we lose our shit.
That guy ahead must be a dimwit.
Is it that hard
to keep pace with the rest of the pack?
Yes, you heard that right.
We are the pack.
We are the hunters.
And the hunted.
Photo by Martin Dusek from Pexels
