Each droplet a crystalline vision of the past, falling by so fleetingly that it could not be fully appreciated before the next.
And the next.
And the three after that.
Seven more now, and the windshield holds a few to appreciate for a little extra time before, reversing their direction, they climb out of view, into the darkening strip of blue.
Faster now, they fall too fast to even glimpse them all, just the few, obscuring the view, in the path of where you were going.
Wipers temporarily clear the field of vision through the accumulating past, but still the rains fall.
Each droplet contains a condensed soundscape of the time, a rising chorus of all the past voices and conversations, the crunching cars of accidents, the whinnying of a horse, that concert, those thunderclaps, that alarm, all drowning out your favourite song on the radio.
Finally, the storm of memories is too much to see through.
The cacophony too much to bear.
Overwhelmed, the past flooding in, the wipers are ineffective, the tyres lose their grip, the vehicle is out of control, and no sandbags can keep the rising waters at bay.
Driving becomes swimming.
Swimming becomes floating, as you’re carried off by the currents, down your personal river of history.