snail

It was raining. No, it was not that calm, bumping from old books. Here the sky was bile, and wipers, like two hysterical preachers, wandered desperately in front of their eyes, trying to clean the world, but only by applying it to blurry light stains. The road that glitters like a peeled snake skin was winding in the dark, and my lights were just two cowardly fingers trying to find the way to nowhere.

I ran. What a magnificent and deceptive phrase. I ran away from unanswered calls and the thick silence that reigns at home when everything is said, but nothing is resolved. I imagined myself as a movie hero entering the heart of the storm, but the truth was much more wandering: I was just a man in a tin box where it smelled of gasoline and yesterday's apple. Sticky steering wheel. The dashboard light that illuminates the dust. All my heroism.

The thunder tumbled somewhere so close that the entire body of the machine was vibrating as if he had received his eyebrow. Radio, who has been trying to catch some sad tune so far, has finally surrendered and started only white, evil noise.

I turned it off.

Suddenly everything became very simple.

I stopped on the sidewalk. I turned off the engine.

The wipers stop the strangest posture. Rain wandering into the roof from a stormy march turned into a quiet, monotonous rhythm of the lullaby. In the dark, behind the dirty glass, there was nothing. Neither road nor purpose. Just drops, slowly running in glass, blending, creating short, meaningless streams.

Through the side window, on dew glass, slow, incredibly slow, a snail was crawling. She went somewhere.

Oh, I'm no longer.