I've noticed an unsettling thing about the world. No matter where you go, everyone ignores the speed limits.
I guess they aren't ignored, strictly speaking. After all, one must know how fast they're allowed to go in order to go faster than that particular figure.
Buzzing around on the back roads through the rolling, curving hinterlands of rural New Zealand, it occurred to me to wonder why the buzz of "fast" superimposed itself over the sensual delight of sliding through the landscape in the warm summertime air. I couldn't stop it, though -- couldn't turn off the compulsion to mash on the gas and feel the growl of metal, air and fire coming through my foot.
Fast is like sugar. Fast is like alcohol. Fast is like music, played so loud that it unbearably tickles your eardrums before bursting them. Fast is so, so good -- but you always need more. And more isn't always better.
I've always been so damned bad at slowing down. I like warp-speed movement -- warp-speed satisfaction -- warp-speed change. This makes me an abominable meditator...but an Olympic-caliber transformation artist.
I'm done transforming. I want to cultivate a better crop of slowness for the next chapter.