I have always loved maps.
The consistency of the demarcation on the page occupies me,
comforts me, distracts me, just a little, from the variable, topographical
revolution within.
The shortest distance between two points eludes me. I scour
the creased expanse, the geography of the folds overlaid on various highways,
lakes, townships, and points of interest. Somewhere on this page, SOMEWHERE, is
the road that will lead me where I want to be, the path to my destiny, the
proverbial road to happiness. I gag.
So I unfold this map
Lines lines lines
Creases that never fold back
I want to tear it apart
Crush it into a ball
Smooth it out
Figure out my route
What the fuck is my destination?
I set it down, I stand up, I look upon it, head cocked in
consideration of the infinity of intersections. I just want to fold the edges together until the Atlantic
and the Pacific touch.
I curse the expanse, shaking my fist in the general direction of the Midwest: “DAMN ALL THIS CORN!!”
I play cartographer in quiet moments alone. I pick up the map and shake it until the Rockies break
apart and the Mississippi runs east to west and I fold up my map into a
little paper boat and set a course for the thing I fear most.
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