I have this very strange theory that I only think about when I drive long distances.
Today I drove six hours, which in Australia, will barely get you half way across most states. It’s a big country. A stupidly big country.
Obviously, driving six hours on little sleep is a bad idea and I don’t know if it is my tired mind that thinks of strange things when I drive but if it is I really like this one.
Oh, I should add here that I think this after every drive above an hour; yes, I have this thought frequently.
Every time I arrive at my destination, for some reason, I think I’m the only version of me that made it there.
Let me elaborate.
In my head there is a multiverse of me driving the same trip at the same time (or very near to the same time) and each time I arrive at my destination I know that I am the version of myself that didn’t crash, didn’t fall asleep, didn’t get run off the road.
I am the me that survived.
Not only am I the me that survived but before I arrived, I could have been any of the other versions of me. Perhaps I was the me that couldn’t get out of the way of the confused, scared kangaroo that jumped out onto the road. I hit it and lost control and careened into a tree but at the moment of death I am suddenly a version of me that didn’t hit a kangaroo.
An infinite amount of me died in the drive I completed only an hour ago and through some good fortune or quantum mechanical quirk I am the me that got to hop into the version that survived.
And I know that one day I won’t be.
One day I will be a version of me that looks down at their watch and doesn’t see the car in front of them slam on their breaks. I’ll be the me whose head cracks against the steering wheel. I’ll be the me that contemplates life as I drop down the sheer edge of a cliff after drifting off for just a moment.
But until then I’m the me that survives.
And I like that.