"Gridlock of the Mind"

The 405 stretched endlessly before me, a vein of asphalt pulsing with the dull monotony of brake lights. Every morning, I merged into the current of half-conscious souls, each of us trapped in the same routine, inching forward to destinations we resented. My corporate job barely paid my bills, and my spirit eroded with each passing day. Yet, like a prisoner resigned to their cell, I got into my car every morning, hoping—futilely—that something, anything, would change.

Today felt no different. The same stifling air, the same murmur of the radio, the same dull ache pressing behind my eyes. I stared ahead, watching as the red taillights blinked and glowed in a never-ending pattern, hypnotic in their rhythm. I sighed, my hands gripping the wheel. This wasn’t life. This was something else—some cruel purgatory where change was an illusion.

As I drove, a strange sensation washed over me, an unsettling tug at the back of my mind. It was faint at first, like the nagging feeling of forgetting something important. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Had I left the stove on? No, I hadn’t cooked in days. My laptop? No, it was in my bag, thrown onto the passenger seat in my usual morning autopilot. Then what?

My phone rang, vibrating against the plastic cup holder. The number flashed on the screen—unknown, but I knew better. Bill collectors. I clenched my jaw before answering, already bracing myself.

"Hello?"

A voice on the other end rattled off my name, their tone all business, all demand. "We're calling about your outstanding balance—"

I exhaled sharply, my frustration boiling over. "Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I just forgot? I’m sitting in traffic, wasting my life away every single day to make barely enough to survive, and you think I magically have money for you? Tell me—how am I supposed to pay you when I can’t even afford to live?"

Silence. A pause. Then the collector launched into their script again, as if my words meant nothing.

I hung up. Hard. The phone clattered onto the seat, and I turned the music up—loud. A mix of music and Spotify affirmations played in an endless loop. "You are strong. You are capable," a voice repeated, but the words felt hollow against the weight pressing down on me. I switched back to music, something loud enough to drown it all out, but after a few minutes, I found myself back on the affirmations, searching for something—anything—that might stick. "You are in control of your life," the voice insisted. I scoffed, flipping back to music again. The bass thumped through my chest, rattling through my bones, drowning out the rage, the helplessness, the crushing weight of it all.

I shook the feeling off and pressed forward, but the thought gnawed at me, creeping into the corners of my mind like an itch I couldn’t scratch. The traffic slowed, locking me into a dead stop between exits. I drummed my fingers against the wheel, the silence growing unbearable. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

The air inside the car felt heavier now, oppressive. I adjusted my rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of my own eyes, shadowed and hollow. Was it always this way? Was I always this way? The weight of exhaustion bore down on me. My limbs felt heavier than they should. Had I slept enough last night? Had I ever slept enough?

I closed my eyes, taking slow, steady breaths, but when I opened them, the scenery outside seemed different. The colors muted. The sounds dampened. My vision blurred for a moment before snapping back into focus, but the creeping unease remained.

I was losing time. One moment, I was at the interchange, and the next, I was pulling into the parking garage beneath my office building. My heart pounded as I stepped out of the car, my legs unsteady as if I had forgotten how to walk. The air felt wrong—too thick, too still. I moved through the lobby, the fluorescent lights above buzzing softly, pressing against my skull like a dull migraine.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside. The mirrored walls reflected me back at myself, and for a fleeting moment, I saw something else—a blur, a shadow of someone who wasn’t quite me. I blinked, and it was gone.

The doors opened to my floor, and I walked down the sterile hallway, my footsteps muffled against the carpet. My hands were cold, my breath shallow. My mind screamed at me to turn back, to run, but my body moved forward as if caught in the undertow of a dream.

I reached my office door, hesitated, then turned the knob. The room was dark. The air smelled of familiarity, of something deeply personal. My breath hitched as I took a step inside, and the walls expanded, morphing, shifting—

No.

I wasn’t at the office.

I was home.

My bedroom lay before me, unchanged and untouched, as if I had never left. My unmade bed. The half-empty coffee cup on my nightstand. The soft hum of the city outside my window.

I stumbled backward, my heart hammering. How? I had driven here—I had spent an hour in traffic—I had been walking into my office just moments ago. I turned, reaching for the door, but when I opened it, there was no hallway. Just the same road. The same endless stretch of the 405. My hands trembled as I turned back toward my room, only to find it dissolving around me, slipping through my fingers like sand.

And then I was back in my car.

Traffic had barely moved. The radio played the same mindless chatter, and the clock on my dashboard blinked mockingly—7:45 AM, just like it always was.

I let out a shaky breath, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. My skin felt cold. My pulse raced. What was real? Where had I been?

And then the realization hit me.

I was late.

I was still home. Still in bed. Still asleep.

The panic rose, clawing up my throat as I fumbled for my phone, desperate to check the time, to wake myself up. But when I looked down, my hands weren’t there.

The car, the traffic, the drive—it wasn’t real.

I never left my bed.

I was still dreaming.

Or living a nightmare over and over.