On the road

I am not merely driving; I am traversing the American highway as a silent witness to the nations most mundane yet monumental pilgrimage the pilgrimage to Walmart. From my perch behind the windshield, the asphalt stretches like a vast, indifferent canvas, etched with the white lines of societal order. Ahead, a slow-motion parade of SUVs and trucks, each a vessel carrying the quiet desperation of consumerism, glides toward the promised land of plastic and price tags. The sky above, a hazy, overcast dome, casts a muted light not the sun of triumph, but the gray of perpetual expectation. On the right, a lone 7-Eleven sign glows like a flickering neon sentinel, a reminder that even in this barren expanse, commerce clings to the roadside. The horizon is not painted with mountains or sunsets, but with the faint, red-roofed silhouette of a Walmart, a beacon in the distance a temple of abundance, a cathedral of choice, awaiting the faithful. This is not travel, but ritual. Not escape, but surrender to the endless, beige, beautiful sprawl. The windshield wipers, idle and expectant, are the only moving parts the only ones who know the destination is never the horizon, but the next exit, where the next purchase awaits.

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