I was lost. I new it before crossing the first bridge. This was my fourth. I closed my eyes carefully during each crossing. Brave enough to watch them through the rear mirror, as they turned into past.
I was speeding, car was skidding. I had no control. Who has? Flirting with fatality. No fear. Of course, that was a lie, too. The other lie was my speed. Truth is, I was crawling. My pace gently cared for cob webs, dangling from the limbs, still corresponding with the upper department.
The lazy realization of lostness felt comforting. Like black berries rotting before they hit the ground. It’s an attraction, and I was attracted. You wont understand, unless you understand the urge to seek asylum in a sewer.
There probably was a road leading back, or out, but I seemed to miss all the spurs. What’d they say… Never return to a squib that didn’t kickoff. Or something. At least my shoes were expensive. Just in case.
Eventually, the thoughts of the sewer left me. Like an outbreak of herpes.
A staring contest took over. How long can you look at something, you don’t know what is, before your curiosity makes you reach out and touch it? My arms were too short.
I have no recollection of how this journey began. How I got lost. Maybe I went right, when I should’ve gone left? Maybe there’s no explanation. Maybe there’s not even a question to be asked. Nonetheless, I’m back on the road again. Crossing bridges. The journey continues.
I have come to realized when and why this journey began. It wasn’t a question about left or right. Right or wrong. Most events in life has an obvious explanation. The relieving freedom given by realization, depends on our willingness to accept that explanation. What is, and what was.
I’m still on the road. Crossing bridges. The journey continues, and I’m loving every bit of it.
Words and photos © Anette Hermann.