I got distracted and lost my chain of thought.

Which is fitting.

I was thinking about paradoxes… and somehow got derailed by one. I was about to create a list about things that are paradoxical, ironically ironic, awkwardly unawkward.

And then I lost the list.

Somewhere between “Port of Entry” and “Why do we drive on a parkway,” my train of thought pulled out of the station.  Which is ironic, because there hasn’t been a passenger train through Calexico in decades. Wow, that makes sense in the most nonsensical way, doesn’t it?

Maybe wandering is exactly what a thought like this is supposed to do before it makes sense. Maybe it becomes cohesive in its own way — like border traffic. No clear pattern. Yet somehow everyone eventually gets where they’re going.

Everyday Paradoxes (Or Linguistic Head-Scratchers). Why has not one openly questioned these?

Why do we call it rush hour when nobody’s moving?

Why do we “park” in a driveway and “drive” on a parkway?

If a store is open 24 hours, why does it have locks?

If you’re “under the weather,” where exactly are you?

Why do we “take” a picture when we leave it behind?

If a book is self-help, shouldn’t you already be helping yourself?

Why is “inflammable” the same as “flammable”?

Why do we press harder on a remote when the batteries are dying, as if determination alone might power it?

And while I was busy questioning parkways and driveway conspiracies, I found myself back where this whole thing started — in line at the Port of Entry.

Midday sun. The kind that turns your steering wheel into a branding iron. The dashboard ticking softly as it expands. The AM radio humming low, some distant signal fading in and out like it’s unsure which country it belongs to.

There’s something about waiting in that line that rearranges your thoughts.

You stare at the sign — Port of Entry — bold, official, unmoved by heat or human confusion. And you start wondering who decided that was the right phrase. Entry into where? From whose point of view? Because from where I’m sitting, it feels a lot like I’m leaving something.

Brake lights glow red in front of me. A slow procession of inching metal. Nobody rushing during rush hour. Nobody really moving, but somehow everyone eventually crossing.

That’s when the questions stop being jokes and start feeling heavier.

If two cities share the same radio stations, the same tortillas, the same last names repeated at Little League games, where exactly does the border begin? Is it the fence? The booth? The uniform? Or is it somewhere quieter — in paperwork and policy and the stories we tell about where we’re from?

The line creeps forward another few feet.

A vendor walks between cars. Someone’s engine overheats. A kid in the backseat asks how much longer. The sun doesn’t answer.

And I think maybe that’s the real paradox.

A fence can divide land, but it can’t divide memory. A sign can declare entry, but it can’t define belonging. Two cities can face each other every day and still pretend they are separate.

The car moves again.

Maybe wandering is the point. Maybe thoughts aren’t supposed to snap into formation like soldiers at inspection. Maybe they’re meant to idle a little. Drift. Circle back. Cross and re-cross invisible lines until something quiet settles in.

By the time I reach the booth, I’m not even sure what I was trying to prove.

I hand over my ID.

The gate lifts.

And just like that, I’m on the other side — still me, still thinking, still wondering who decided what to call this place.

Port of Entry.

Or maybe it’s just a pause… 

between two halves of the same town.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.