FOUR OF TAXIS

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The beach is wet with yesterday’s decisions and the tide is coming in like a crooked accountant. Four taxis idle in the surf, engines humming like low-grade prophecy. No drivers in sight. That should worry you—but it doesn’t. That’s the problem.

Newspaper taxis appear on the shore…
Yeah, they do. Headlines strapped to the roof like cages—every story you ever believed, every version of yourself you tried on and wore out. They’ve come to collect.

This is a card of movement disguised as choice. You think you’re picking a ride. You’re not. The rides are picking you.

The first taxi is routine—safe, dull, padded with habit. It smells like coffee and compromise. You’ve been here before.

The second is ambition—fast talk, bright lights, promises that sweat through their shirt collars. It’ll get you somewhere, but not necessarily where you said you wanted to go.

The third is escape—windows fogged, music too loud, driver missing but the meter’s still running. This one doesn’t care where you land.

And the fourth—ah hell—the fourth has the door open. Interior glowing like a confession booth. That one is truth. Raw, inconvenient, possibly illegal in several states. It doesn’t promise comfort. It promises clarity.

Climb in the back with your head in the clouds…
That’s the hook. You’re already halfway gone, drifting on narrative fumes. You’ve been outsourcing your direction to weather systems of mood and myth.

And you’re gone.
Exactly. Gone where? That’s the question the card hammers into your ribs.

Water around the wheels means instability. Emotion has flooded the road. You cannot stay parked here—everything is already moving, even if it looks still. The open door means the moment is active. A decision is happening whether you make it or not.

So here’s the deal:

Stop pretending all four rides are equal.

One of them costs your time.
One costs your integrity.
One costs your future.
And one costs your illusions.

Pick the fare you can afford—and for God’s sake, check what you’re carrying on the roof.

Because those cages?
They’re not luggage.
They’re the things that have been riding you.