In Three Lines

In Three Lines

In Three Lines

In Three Lines

In Three Lines

on tour.

roadways, connecting country like a series of arteries -
delivering the nutrients of family, the oxygen of opportunity, to the organs, the hearts, that await them on the other end.

roads branch out in capillaries -
feeding small adventures to vestigial needs housed by plebeian desires; contouring mountains, the depressions of canyons, valleys and high plains or deserts.

the road, unbiased but mutable -
buckling under pressure or abrasive repetitive motion, erosion. in turn, the road possesses the ability to inspire or stunt, to curve or to curb tired, human, inertia.  Once turning, the wheels roll on; breaks breaking big-rig, semi, 18-wheeler motion.

we soon forget what we can achieve -
once sedentary, fear can catch you, infecting you, paralyzing you with nostalgia for all the courage, or the fuck-it freedom, you had when you were young.  For the time when your future outweighed your past.  When there was more living to do, more to accomplish, than less to look forward to.

we feign the ability to allow -
the road to roll on, the choice to disembark, the option to change course.  Like home, you can never return to the road.  The bones will be there to color your journey with memories, in shades of retrospection - born to be buried, buried to be excavated and borne for hope and hopelessness, for love, for liberty, for the potential that exists between the peaks, the rush of falling action and the anticipation of the climb.