Excerpt from my trusted @ezraarthur journal
The crinkled up paper creaked and moaned as it’s deep folds separated like zippers. The old paper was stale and waxy as it hissed and stretched and unfolded like the bellowing landscape it represented. I could almost smell the rain that had created the wobbles and pimples on it’s surface. I could taste the burned coffee grounds and cold french fries from the late night diner I’d stopped at off the 85 still wrestling on my tongue. Moths fluttering around the streetlight like a scattering army. The pavement below hummed like black peaks littered with diamonds waiting to be discovered. I traced my finger across the brittle parchment covered with coordinates and patches of pastel colored blotches defining forests and cities. Little triangles where towering trees stand like totems to a time when the world was still primitive. I taste the looming fog and the first gasp of fall; ashes and damp, dead leaves. Remnants of a campfire still living and breathing in my wool flannel jacket. An old country song plays like a lost ship through the truck radio. I catch the tail end of a line saying something about “heading west”. I look at the map, and feel my eyes trace the paper like worn, rubber tires on a desolate highway. West. West is where I’ll go.