Every time I pass it by. I am overwhelmed with a sense of sadness. I think back to my years of budding adolescence. Where I was adamant that it was going to be my first car. A Porsche. A name synonymous with performance, heritage, and refinement.
I think back to my many musings and daydreams about the little Turbo car. It’s Copenhagen Blue paint, glistening in my driveway. It’s 8 valve turbo four, purring away in the early morning dew. I would pop a cassette into the stereo. Don a pair of vintage sunglasses and gloves. Then go connect myself with the machine for a few hours. Forgetting about my problems and the rest of the world.
Alas, those days never came. I grew past my teenage years, forgetting about the little Porsche. Every time I pass it by. I’m reminded about all the plans. The schemes to free it from it’s purgatory.
I usually spend some time on the internet after these encounters. Planning, thinking, about how I can bring this melancholy machine back from the depths of darkness.
However, I am not a man of much wealth or status. So these plans only remain what they are. Dreams.
I often end these long periods of internal strife right where I began. Full of sadness and disappointment. I tell myself I must be content with the cars I have saved. The ones I cherish. I come to the realization that not all of the forgotten and unloved cars can be saved.
Then I forget about the little Turbo once again. Leaving it to it’s purgatory.