Going Home
I am so deep inside my own head that I am barely even present in the car. The clutter is collecting faster than I can sort it out. I pace up and down the aisles, searching for a place to put this. It does not neatly fit into my obsessive, already established, groupings piled in towers so high that I cannot see the tops from the ground anymore. There is no pile, no shelf, no corner. I hold it in my lap as the billboards pass through me… drink this beer… stay at this hotel… “Don’t do drugs”… I am bombarded by images, emotions, memories that I cannot process. Keep driving past the signs, the propaganda, the bullshit - until even the “Jesus Saves” signs have run out - to a place where only God speaks.
