My family roots led me to a deep awareness about cars. My great grandparents were horse traders. Small wonder, my affections towards metal steeds seem psychotic. I gave them names: Brutus, Pandora, Black Stallion ... to name a few.
I did a recent inventory of units I've herded in my garage and it was delightfully ginormous. Through the journeys the cars taught me well. A man must be careful not to steal their identity. Some men have lost their hearts thinking that their Porsche defines them. When this happens, a subversive oil change takes place: gladness dissipates as the poor car assumes the awkward posture of reversed ownership. The man is comically owned by the car.
I fall prey to this syndrome because I lust after cars: My first sports car had me with a tight leash. The classic Mustang forced me to fake my identity. My Audi affected my gait ... ad infinitum.
By grace, I stumbled upon a firewall. I was introduced to a simple being: a used 2000 Honda Civic. His radical simplicity pulled my roots to where they ought to be.
I fondly refer to him as Green Cross. I drive him everyday. He never attempts to own me. Neither do I. I just drive him with an ever-increasing delight towards becoming a new person each driving day.
It is ironic: he is 16 years old but he takes me to treks of newness each passing day. Happy New Consciousness.