Like a van, under a wire…

I’m a metaphorical kinda guy.

Some guys are simple; some like to play golf or fish or root for football teams. Some guys like strip clubs. Most guys are literal and like literal stuff.

Not me. I’m a metaphorical guy.
I see disassociated symbolism everywhere I go.
I see Life in a field of grass, I see Misery in a gutter drain. Such is the fate of my perspective for I never behold reality directly. My environment enters my brain obliquely through the side door of my subconscious.

My life is a torrent of symbolism.
Nothing is ever just what it is.
This is best described as a lethargy, a distaste for concrete reality.

So. I’m a van.
A white van that has been left to sit too long by a neglectful owner.
Not abandoned, for it sits in the isolated stall of a large lot I walk by many days. It never moves. The van sits, and sits…and sits. Day after day, through sun and rain.

Forever it seems to wait and ponder a removed future.
I am a white van.

The van looks like it could move. It is intact. I guess it could potentially lead a normal vehicular life if someone would just turn the key. Give it hope. Instead, it sits, mired in its safe parking stall. Mired in regularity and lacking ambition. It lingers quaintly between those 2 fixed lines and it is comically helpless in its own multi-tonned staid manner.

A van on the move as it is meant to be, barreling down the road, is deadly and fearsome.

Sitting for months in a parking stall it is a shameful debacle.
A charade of movement. It is agonizing and laughable for there nothing fearsome about a van that snubs its nature by not moving, by not barreling. A van that never starts does not fulfill its calling. To be a van.

Instead, it is a heavy and unyielding mass of iron and rubber sitting at the edge of parking lot, doing no one any good, serving nobody, acting only as a receptacle for careless and impersonal bird shit.

It is devoured and pounded by the pelting hands of fate.

Droppings that might have splattered to the ground and been washed or purged through the recycling streams of nature instead splatter the humiliated sheet metal and dry into fossilized and impenetrable solid chunks of affixed aviary waste.

The van does not move. It won’t. It will sit forever in the quiet, lonely stall far from where everyone else parks their clean, moving cars that never play host to generations of ill-fated waste. The van only sits alone under the rain of Hollywood bird waste.

The metaphor is striking.
I am the van.

I am the un-driven van conveniently, complacently, resting in a lonely stall that I use as my solitary retreat. Safety and comfort beckon and though the more I stay, the more I refuse to move, the more I am pelted by every form of human disrespect and dishonor and discharged detritus, I still refuse to budge because the sense of predictability is too great!

I am the van that stopped moving.
I am the van that stopped being a van, the van whose tires have become buckled pedestals.

I am the van that has stayed in one place too long; the van whose emotional and spiritual shield is cloaked with a relief map of shit, for I gladly welcome the curse and the defeat. I sit in this stall and don’t move and I catch it all and the ground is thankful.

I am the van who has ceased thinking of itself as a van but instead as a parking lot adornment coated in hardened layers of indifference and insignificance.

I am the van who must move or soon lose memory of my identity.