I am awareness
inside a brilliant vessel.

Not the hands at ten and two.
Not the foot against the pedal.
Not the body carried
eighty miles an hour
through the dark.

I am the thing behind it all,
watching.

The highway unspools beneath me,
white lines swallowed
one by one.

Trees become shadow.
Shadow becomes distance.

The vessel presses harder.

And the world rushes toward me
fast enough
to feel like danger.

Perhaps that is all movement is—

the world rearranging itself
around something
that has never moved at all.

I remain.

And experience
comes rushing in.