Six months, three weeks, and four days, I have been on the road. More than half a year. Walking along the white line without any real goal. Almost wandering aimlessly. Not even knowing where I am. The wild. A beautiful place, the wild. A never-ending, silent world without any sign of human presence. Well, except for this old road of course.
The great plains surround you on almost every side. And in the distance, the mountains. Tall, dark and intimidating. Like a horizon they never seem to get closer. Or don’t want to get closer. In the sky either a blazing, burning sun or a grey veil of immobile clouds, as if the heavens themselves were dead. Nothing else in your field of view for a thousand miles, only you and the road.
So what do you do? Well, you walk for one. You walk and you walk more. You follow the road on and on, hoping to reach something or someone. Sometime, eventually. So you walk some more. You get tired, you get exhausted, so exhausted your legs won’t move or stop shaking. You get angry, you shout and yell at the sky, the mountains or the road until your voice becomes hoarse. Then you start running. You run as fast as you can, until your lungs start burning and you are overcome with dizziness. You get desperate, almost surrendering to this wilderness that looms all around and is always watching you. And you walk some more. But you never get anywhere.
So then, what do you do?
You start to think. You think about how warm the wind is, about how blue the sky has become. Then it starts to get deeper, it becomes more personal. Why are you here? Where is here? And then, later still, you begin to wonder if you’re not going crazy. You begin to reflect on who you are, to wonder who you are… But questions always come more numerous than answers. Who are you really? Why are you walking? Where are you going? Where did you come from? How long has it been since you’ve begun your journey…? Since you last ate…? And then you start to count… One, two, three days…
Six months, three weeks and four days…