Highway Part 1

Highway Chapter 1/Intro Matt

I am a drifter. A loner, a nobody, a ghost. The highway stretches before me, a vast and unending path to nowhere. It has consumed me entirely and made me a part of it. My hopes, my dreams, my goals. They all no longer exist. I have become the road. I do not know my name. All I know is this lonely journey. People see drifters as mysterious people, secret heroes destined to save the day. This is not who I am. I am no Clint Eastwood movie, no cowboy, no hero. The only thing under my gruff exterior is the soul attached to the passage.

Even so, I don’t mind this. All people follow a trail, the trail of life. But theirs is troubled, filled with struggle and fraught with turmoil. My way is another kind entirely. For me, the way is lonely and cruel to be sure. As true as this is, it is the only friend I have had. On this path there is no room for religions, for discrimination, for hatred. There is no rich and poor, no right and wrong, no reverence or disdain. The never ending isle strips away all but the persons bare soul, pure and unblemished by the troubles of the world in its essence. I am gifted, for while I know not the feeling of a family, I know what it feels like to be whole. For we all are the same deep down. Race, gender, status, and age apply not when stripped down to the soul. We are so much more alike than anyone can ever believe. The passage forces people to see that we are all connected. Do we not all cry? Laugh? Bleed? Is it not true that everyone can smile? We all breathe the same air, and we all share the same emotions. We were born this way, and it is still all there, deep inside.

Your days are full of children, friends, and spouses, all believing yourselves to be righteous and sure of your lives. But there is always that nagging feeling of doubt and uncertainty, feeling as if there is something missing. My days are full of dusty shoes, gathering particles that other travelers created. Days of colossal mountains of purple and navy, the peaks dusted with early winter snow. Mornings of scorching heat, the sun rising high in the sky like the chariot of Apollo, might and immensely powerful. Evenings of cool breezes, the stars twinkling elegantly and joyfully. They tell stories of ages long past, heroes forever immortalized in the sky as a reward for their deeds.

I have sat awake many a night just gazing upon those stars listening to the crickets and cicadas sing their song in perfect and cordant harmony, and felt the world around me become a part of my being. One cannot describe what it feels like to be connected to every creature around you, to feel every molecule in your body ignite in a blazing conflagration with the feeling of just being alive. Here there is no doubt or worry, and nothing can be missing. Only one who has traversed in such a matter can understand.

If we happen to pass each other on our way to nowhere, we do not exclaim nor do we even carry on much conversation. For we know that words are unnecessary, for we are a part of each other and therefore whole. Some people catch glimpses of our world, like artists and singers. I firmly believe that some of these people have seen at least a piece of this.

So while you go about your lives, I will keep on drifting. I will continue to walk along the side of the highway. I am the guardian of the deserted avenue, the spouse of the quiet pass, the sibling of the tender route, and the friend of the broken boulevard. I am here to follow that highway and to help others see the world how it really is. I am waiting, and I always will be. I will be looking down that street until the dirt below my feet greets me like an old friend. We only wish for you to understand, just as we do. To quote a famous song some of you might know, “ I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will live as one.”

Highway Chapter 2 Veronica

I’ve never quite noticed just how beautiful a spider web can be. The thin threads sparkle with fine and silky elegance, but are the equivalent of steel. How can something be so tough, yet be so beautiful? The spider takes hours weaving it, so delicate and precise as if it is the only task in the world. But why? Why does it spend so much time on this task? Because it is so small and thin, the web is weak and vulnerable, easily destroyed. If it is not first destroyed by some gust of wind, some raindrop gone awry, or perhaps some animal running by, it is ruined by a human being. A careless swat, a twirl of a broom, and the brilliance is gone. So why does the spider continue doing it? It should know it will be destroyed. Why not make a more practical web to catch bugs, not one made with immeasurable effort? Maybe it is too much to expect reason from a spider. It does not know any better. It cannot know that everything will be in ruin because of a human being. Because after all, isn’t that what we do?

We consume everything in our path like a black hole, sucking in all life before us in an attempt to forge a path ahead. Humans defy the laws of nature. They cheat death, create weapons unlike any in the wild, and think themselves ultimate in every way. Other life forms just don’t have a chance. This race, once on level with others, has become poisoned and corrupt and they will not stop until they have obliterated all that is in their path, and the world eats itself from the inside. It sickens me. But still, I am one of these humans. I am part of a world I can’t escape from, no matter how much I long to. Despite this, I will never give into the society standard. I refuse to be the standard.

I live in this retched town, populated with the most delusional people on the planet. Everything here is pleasant. The sun, the sky, the plants. All of the children get along. They pretend that everything in life is perfect, and that they have every reason to be content. They don’t ever question life. Unless they come in contact with me.

Being left all by myself at a very young age, I have always been different. With no parents or siblings to speak of, I had become that child. At first, they tried to act like I was normal. But I knew that deep down, they found me to be an anomaly. Something that was not pleasant and perfect. A smudge, a mark, and imperfection in their polished and immaculate world. I didn’t feel as if I had anything in common with these kids, and so naturally I was withdrawn. But you can bet I tried my hardest to be like them.

As we got older however, I started to become less and less like them, and when their parents told them they shouldn’t play with me anymore, I wasn’t surprised. Tommy didn’t want to play soccer, Janie couldn’t sleep over because she was helping her mom, and Jacob was doing homework and couldn’t go to the park. I knew it was all a lie. The excuses starting to become more forced, until I stopped calling. This was when I truly became alone. I would wander the streets, dejected and stooped, and hoped that nobody would notice me. Nobody talked to me directly unless absolutely necessary. But I knew that despite my attempts to be invisible, I was like a neon banner. Rumors and murmurs followed me everywhere I went, so palpable I could feel them forming like a trail. Under my feet, in front of me, looming onwards. I would get the looks of pity, their faces twisted in an expression of mock concern. I hated those looks more than anything in the world.

They disgusted me. I didn’t need their pity. I wasn’t some poor sap who had an incident and now I was a tragic example to the world. People would stray away from their work to whisper conspiratorially to one another. “I heard she eats garbage because she can’t afford food.” Another. “Poor girl, I can’t believe she lives alone.” And yet another. “She’s like an animal.” The voices filled my head until I could bear them no more. The time it took me to race back to my little sanctuary carried on how many voices I heard. I used to go home and cry about it. My cries filled the air with despair and pain, my young soul being ripped apart. It happened every day I left the house.

One day, when I was laying there, something changed. It had suddenly come to me that nobody could hear me cry, and nobody could feel my pain. I was essentially wasting my life on these people. These people who had tormented me my whole life. I knew that if I continued to be this way, I would end up killing myself. And that’s when I began to change. I refused to be their “tragic” tale. That girl, did you hear? She killed herself. How awful. I guess she just couldn’t take it. No. I would not let them win this game. The black hole wasn’t going to consume me. For I was human too, and I held the same power of destruction.

So I made their lives as difficult as possible. I cut off my braids, dusted off my knees, and dried my eyes. If they wanted me to be different, I would. I transformed into who I am today. Like a butterfly, I emerged from my cocoon of silence and pain, and showed the world just how colorful I was. I took up cursing, and used my vocabulary as often as I could. I beat up any kid who insulted me, spoke back to any adults that had conversation with me, and walked around the streets at night.

It was hard at first, to keep that up in all the situations, especially as the rumors got worse. Some said I had killed my parents, that I was dangerous. But I adjusted to it, evolved into a tougher species. My skin got thicker, and I began to just brush off the insults and lies. I had built up a wall between myself and the rest of humanity, and nobody could have taken it down. The looks of pity had turned into fear and worry, and it made me feel better. I was something that was different. I was glad that they always had a constant reminder that I was there, continuing to ruin their perfect lives. I was rebellious in every sense of the word. And that bothered them. They complain, but I haven’t committed any crime or offense, so they cannot have me removed. I wouldn’t let it be that easy.

Although I had gained freedom and satisfaction from my plans, I still felt as if something was missing from my life. I felt as if there was a void in my very soul, and I couldn’t fill it with faces, or voices. I was missing an essential piece of life. They only time I seemed to partially fill that void was when I went for walks around the forests nearby. The woodland animals caused me to have a sense of aching yearning. I longed to be part of this world, instead of a part of mine. But animals are only animals, and I couldn’t imagine such a boring life, foraging and doing the same thing every day. The only thing I didn’t like about the forest was the noise.

So many animals and bugs made noises at the same time, they clashed with each other. The cicadas and crickets were opposites, and they made sounds that ground together uncomfortably. I could not see how nature allowed both of these insects to live in the same area. Even so, there was something innately magical about the world outside, and I liked it more than any other place. The feeling of missing something seems to intensify, as if I am close to finding out why it exists. Like a child’s game of hot and cold, it hints at the answer. But I am never able to find it. It is another difficult thing, and I decide to give up on it. Why should I work for something I can’t attain? Whatever I can’t have isn’t worth it anyway.

These nights I just lay on my bed, staring out the window, gazing up at the pale, luminescent moon and all the little stars. They are but specks in the sky. While most nights I go to sleep within a few minutes, there are nights where some force keeps me awake and I think. I think of my life, of the people and the world, and I think of the spider.

Is it sad that its web has been broken? I feel as if my soul has become a web. The hole in the middle never goes away, and all of the strings have been broken beyond repair. But each night it tries and tries again with futility. I cannot be woven back together before I am destroyed again. I think of the mornings and the nights where I am brushed away like the web, to emerge and try again with results that don’t differ. As I drift off to the land of dreams and darkness, I think how sad it must be. My life is the melancholy of the spider.