Ah.

The freeway.

The highway.

The open road.

Isn’t it lovely in the sunshine?

Thoughtful in the rain?

Aside from the regular irks and occasional rage.

Our roads are hopeful places.

Wistfully beckoning towards adventure and memory.

It’s rare to see them as tragic.

As manglers and as dealers of death.

Unless we ourselves suffer or witness the suffering of kin at their hand.

And even then those memories fade.

Roads are a utility a commonplace.

And things that are such. Things that are commonplace breed amnesia.

So again we see them as doorways to the sea, to mountain peaks, to friendly houses, and concert halls.

This is the horror of the commonplace.

Of the day to day.

Of forgetting the uncanny nature of life. Of conscious life. Of the divine spark.

These dailies…these things…

Things that through their prosaic hues mute the masterwork.

Obscuring.

They are a living death.

A zombie looking blankly down the road.

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