Surely this cannot be the way. God only knows where we are. When I let you lead, I assumed you knew where we were going. At the very least, you should be able to navigate us when we’re not certain. But now we stand here paralysed with indecision. I suppose the only options are onward or back from whence we came. We cannot go back. This savage journey is not over. Who knows where it will lead us. Neither one of us it seems.

Let’s go on. I’ll relinquish my expectations and assumptions and unfulfilled desires. You asked for a partner tacitly and I obliged.

What are you running from? As if we’re on the lam. As if we are unwanted in our own homes. As if we can no longer show our faces in three states and myriad places. This road with its straight lines, straight even in its curves, symmetrical in all its undulations, precise parallel double yellow partitioning one side from another. Two yellow lines which never meet lest they become one. No braiding or overlapping. Distinct in tension or complete in unification.

This road is a constant reminder of my here-ness, the civilization which doesn’t agree with me, the dominion of man over his landscape. Why must we remain on this prescribed path? Turn here — go off this paved nightmare. No? I’ll trek on foot. There’s nothing for me on this open road. It’s a false sense of agency. Go as far as you would like on this path which has been tended, selected and certified safe by agencies and engineers aplenty. What could be more certain than safe passage on these arteries coursing through the country?

Ah, we wish to go far and fast. When will that end? So many questions for one who has given carte blanche to another. Thrilling to let someone else control for a while. Those kind of liberties lead me here to this barren wasteland, this isolated desert where I wonder how many chattle died, how many people arrived and departed in the same breath.

This is no stopping place. Won’t you go on? My demons are catching up. This body must stay in motion. Stand idle and thoughts cascade into my consciousness. Stillness is its own version of sensory deprivation. Won’t you move? Until you do, I’ll examine these rocks which crumble in my hand, these plants which crunch underfoot, this sign in its brilliant heat and guidance. No one passes for some time. Won’t you tell me what’s on your mind? But you need not explain and I need not ask. That’s the beauty of surrender. Decide for me, dear, I can’t bear to think for myself. Ah, yes. Let’s.