I'll be on the road again and it's one billion degrees. life continues to prove it is a perfect spiral. love a spiral outwards. grief a spiral inwards. I recognize this feeling but know it's a kind of far memory. same body. different highway.
The radio of my car is spitting static into my ears, a census of discarded selves perhaps. collecting their names, testing the phonetics of a life I am leaving behind. I know the topography of every highway by heart, I am a cartographer of non-arrival.
I seek a fixed star, an indicator of belonging, but the road is a Möbius strip of potentiality.
I only sit mindless in my dad's car, propelled by a restless impulse.
We keep driving, as I wait for myself to appear in the rear-view mirror.
The self does not appear in motion, it thins, it becomes only the act of moving.
I vanish mile by mile,
same body. different highway.