I was watching a police interaction the other night.
A guy had just crashed his car and taken off on foot. It was dark. They lost him near a railroad track in the woods.
So they brought in a K9.
A train was coming through at the same time. Noise everywhere. Lights flashing. Air horn blasting. The dog was already on edge.
One of the officers bent down to look under a low branch.
The dog bit him in the face.
Blood everywhere.
The handler froze.
The dog pulled back, looked at the handler, pacing.
Then nose to the ground again, trying to pick the scent back up.
Like nothing had happened.
It didn’t look aggressive.
More like something misfired.
Too much happening. No clarity.
But it didn’t look chaotic at first.
It looked normal. Like nothing was out of place.
I saw myself in that dog.
I’ve moved like that before.
Buried in noise I called life.
Moving like a chronic sleepwalker.
I was sure of a lot of things.
Locked in.
Gunning for them like I knew what I was doing.
I didn’t.
No fucking clue.
I thought I was moving forward.
I was drifting.
Things started slipping.
A catch-up I didn’t follow up.
A message I meant to send.
Something that mattered to me that kept getting pushed to tomorrow.
Not because I didn’t care.
I was already somewhere else.
Like that dog.
I was just moving.
Fast.
And it feels like driving 150 km/h down a country road in a heavy fog.
You feel in control. You hold your line. You trust yourself.
But you can’t see six feet ahead of you.
And still, you keep going, just following that feeling.
Momentum doesn’t question anything.
Even when you can’t see what’s right in front of you.