I’m not sure where I’m going, are you? And I’m not sure if I should be. At times I am, and I do, but the rest is just hazy expanses of confusion smeared across miles and days.
The map is punctured. Incised by little moments of knowledge where thumbtacks once were. And now what I thought I knew is even emptier than where I might think I should go. So, for the most part, I just let ’em crumple: the atlases, the brochures, the pamphlets—they collect ketchup smears and footprints. They’re necrotized by embers that never gain enough momentum to make it out against the whipping winds of the ride, as my knuckles lazily cradle cigarette after cigarette. Sometimes I look outside and my path is all oxygen-buddied-carbon exhaust and dissolving into that breeze of continuous motion—movement that becomes stagnant in its inertial perpetuity. It’s funny how I never seem to run out of gas. I panic and pay more attention to the hand of the fuel gauge than to those on my wrist, but no. The only pauses I’ve taken were mere slowings to evaluate the occasionally illuminated signpost while tears rose up in hope of finding a text that read, “Home, this is it,” but no. Nothing ever forces me to stop. It used to be all wild rides of anticipation, disappointment—but now my emotions are as flat as all this land seems to be. The sign says “Welcome to Ohio,” says “So much to Discover,” then becomes a nondescript pinpoint in the review mirror. I’ve taken all the thumbtacks—every last removed signifier—and pushed them equally ineffectually into my skin. Sometimes the trampled papers—with more rugged topography, convoluted contortions than the plains outside—portray blood mixed into the ketchup running like the little bodies of water, streams and rivers I’ll never find. Or even know if I want to.
So here’s to driving, my friend. And to solitude. Silence. I threw out my companions the cassette tapes long ago. One by one. Celebratory ribbons streaming outside the truck as I wedded myself to the road.
Because it’s just me and the road, kid, just me and the road. And I think that’s all it’s ever gonna be…which, come to think of it, isn’t really anything at all.
