The interstate of life
You are free and that is why you are lost.
–Franz Kafka
On the interstate of life you rarely reach your destination. In rest-stop after rest-stop, you look for signs of God, or happiness, or just reason enough to get back on the road. But is it not right and fitting that you lose your way? Isn’t such failure itself evidence of the sublime? Granted, the bleary-eyed, caffeine-dazed monotony of the interstate of life may often feel like an endless bad dream. But the roadside wreckage that marks your journey–the discarded quarts of oil, the busted hub caps, the insect bodies splattered on your windshield, the coffee lids scattered at your feet–aren’t these signs that, in a certain way, you have already arrived?
+ It’s not whether I arrive; it’s how I lose my way. +
