Let’s dance.
60 mph. Now 65. Here we go, Dana. We’re going to push 70. Maybe 75. Look left. They’re still there. Look right. Don’t get emotional. Now, they’re coming closer. Fast.
At this speed, hesitation is a liability. Side by side. Dangerous. Move too fast, and you’ll be preoccupied with what’s ahead. Move too slow, and you’ll be haunted by what’s behind.
The dashes on the road are disappearing. Oh my god, we’re going to be side by side.
Who takes the lead here? Should I accelerate? I was here first, though. I’m following the rules, aren’t I? They need to slow down. Let’s work together. Are they even aware I’m still here?
Every time I’m forced to merge, it feels like the opening scene of a Michael Mann thriller. I can feel my amygdala revving, ready to take me on the flight of a lifetime.
Merging is a dance. Two people, thousands of pounds of metal, moving at high speed, futures hanging by thread. God forbid anyone sneezes.
It’s a trust fall on the expressway. One wrong move and it’s a collision of mass proportions.
And yet—when it works—there’s this surprising familiarity. Like it was always meant to happen. Relief washing over you. You’re still breathing. You survived.
Why do the roads need to narrow? It’s uncomfortable. Why must a path change? It’s scary. But sometimes, when you’re forced to merge, you realize there’s beauty in it. The elegance of getting there together. You see that the choices you both made led to this moment—this delicate flow, this shared journey.
Listens to “White Ferrari” by Frank Ocean
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