(Don't Fear) the Reaper
wait- what?
I'm so confused.
Alcohol does weird things to peoples' personalities.
Time does weird things to a person's thoughts.
I almost died on Saturday, in a method I specifically predicted.
This is not a painful, violent, traumatic near-death story, but it is rather in the vein of A Car Could Have Hit Me While Crossing The Street "could have died:" potential death near-realized in a split second.
I've been planning a Mix CD for a long time, with kind of a morbid subject for most-- a compilation of Songs I Could See Myself Killing Myself To: Different tracks for Different Deaths. One song I've always gotten a clear image on is (cliche) Don't Fear the Reaper, careening off a country road some sunny day-- letting go of the wheel and watching the car fly freely off a mountain.
Saturday was a sun kissed, balmy pre-spring day. It was 4pm, the sun was beginning to sink as I drive Charles to Whitsett on my way to greensboro for Diana's birthday party. Whitsett is an unexpectedly beautiful rural area, with miles of white picket fences keeping horses in rolling green pastures away from the two-lane road that cuts the scenery. Farmhouses and country stores pop up periodically as Don't Fear the Reaper comes on the radio. I remember the song, its inclusion in my mix tape, and I smile.
"I love this song."
Charles nods in agreement.
I drop him off at his house and roll back the way I came, wind through the open windows, sunlight dancing on the windshield, pouring over the asphalt. The year is 1976, he has given me a small bud in exchange for the trip from Chapel Hill, now nestled in the glove compartment; life is beautiful and carefree.
There is no warning.
I never see a stop sign. There is just a cheerful white picket fence peeking over the hill as I roar toward its crest and the road comes to a T-intersection, a steep valley looming below. My heart jumps to my throat as I realize what is about to happen.
I slam on brakes, screeching to a stop in the middle of the intersection, a couple feet from the fence. I look around wildly for a second, praying there are no cars coming. The only thing worse than leaving the prophecy unfulfilled would be for fate to laugh and blindside me after nearly avoiding it.
The world has a wicked sense of humor.
Shakily, I back up and turn right, making my way back to the highway and glaring at the radio, still dancing with music. The sun shines less brightly as I roll up the windows.
I'm so confused.
Alcohol does weird things to peoples' personalities.
Time does weird things to a person's thoughts.
I almost died on Saturday, in a method I specifically predicted.
This is not a painful, violent, traumatic near-death story, but it is rather in the vein of A Car Could Have Hit Me While Crossing The Street "could have died:" potential death near-realized in a split second.
I've been planning a Mix CD for a long time, with kind of a morbid subject for most-- a compilation of Songs I Could See Myself Killing Myself To: Different tracks for Different Deaths. One song I've always gotten a clear image on is (cliche) Don't Fear the Reaper, careening off a country road some sunny day-- letting go of the wheel and watching the car fly freely off a mountain.
Saturday was a sun kissed, balmy pre-spring day. It was 4pm, the sun was beginning to sink as I drive Charles to Whitsett on my way to greensboro for Diana's birthday party. Whitsett is an unexpectedly beautiful rural area, with miles of white picket fences keeping horses in rolling green pastures away from the two-lane road that cuts the scenery. Farmhouses and country stores pop up periodically as Don't Fear the Reaper comes on the radio. I remember the song, its inclusion in my mix tape, and I smile.
"I love this song."
Charles nods in agreement.
I drop him off at his house and roll back the way I came, wind through the open windows, sunlight dancing on the windshield, pouring over the asphalt. The year is 1976, he has given me a small bud in exchange for the trip from Chapel Hill, now nestled in the glove compartment; life is beautiful and carefree.
There is no warning.
I never see a stop sign. There is just a cheerful white picket fence peeking over the hill as I roar toward its crest and the road comes to a T-intersection, a steep valley looming below. My heart jumps to my throat as I realize what is about to happen.
I slam on brakes, screeching to a stop in the middle of the intersection, a couple feet from the fence. I look around wildly for a second, praying there are no cars coming. The only thing worse than leaving the prophecy unfulfilled would be for fate to laugh and blindside me after nearly avoiding it.
The world has a wicked sense of humor.
Shakily, I back up and turn right, making my way back to the highway and glaring at the radio, still dancing with music. The sun shines less brightly as I roll up the windows.