Behind the Wheel

We carry the savanna in us, and the jungle. Things that came before. Beneath layers of technology, of progress, of supposed civilization, lie small and frightened primates. We weren’t always the apex predator.

There are moments when the masks fall away, when ancient buried parts appear. Raw, primitive things. Terror and it’s cousin, rage. Lust and it’s offspring, love. The parts that really drive.

We grip the wheel tightly, scan the road ahead, pretend our destination is clear, savor the fleeting illusion of control. Enclosed in our machines muscle and metal merge, driven by ghosts in our genes.

 Ahead on the asphalt sometimes, glimpses of something greater. Hints of presence. Hints of connection. A shimmering that recedes as you approach. Silver heat ripples under an unforgiving desert sky. The uncertain promise of redemption that drives us into, sometimes through, our fears. But we drive. And drive. And drive.

Without art we are but chimps with car keys.