I traveled all the way west to the space where the buttes meet the horizon. That space where the land rises up and exposes the sand and the rocks. Across the lake, if it’s even a lake, is that campground that I can never remember. Gravel roads. Endless hills. Oversized trucks and greasy baseball caps. Grocery carts overfilled and an entire store inhabited by middle-aged men. An anomaly. A mystery. A memory.
Alas, we move onward. We abandon our attempts to move inward. Instead, we explore the exterior. We eat and we fast. We drink and we abstain. We move and we stand still. We wander the empty streets after midnight. We play songs on repeat because it warms up some part of us that longs to feel comfort. This is what we do until we don’t.
This is it. It’s coming back.