picture this. you are out on a desert highway. you know this place: shrubs and dirt (not soil-- an important distinction, since it's not fertile) as far as the eye can see. the sun beats down, the road is bleached, and you're not sure if the road goes over a slight hill or if your vision of the distance is just distorted.
you've traveled this road since you were a child. back and forth between places. neighboring places, far places. green places, cold places, hot places, home-like places, dream-like spaces.
you've slept, often. someone you trust drives the car, and so you rest your head when your eyes get tired of gazing at infinity. you lean against the warm glass, or maybe make do with the seat belt over your shoulder, or maybe draw up your knees. improper, definitely. if you were to crash, this is likely not the safest way to sit. but that hardly crosses your mind, if at all. time feels halted here. the only danger is boredom.
someone you trusted drove the car, and so you dreamt. you imagined things. the occasional truck to be a beast. large, hulking things. you do not want to be caught on the wrong side of such a thing. you did not acknowledge any man who drove it, for you never saw his face. you only knew the nameless, roaring thing that threatened quiet. though ultimately, these too were only seeking the end to infinity. an exit some number far off.
you imagined headlights from the opposite way to be some kind of magic of their own. if it were night, maybe they'd be fairy-like. in the day, they are their own suns, competing against all other brightness.
you slept properly, too. maybe you dreamt about infinity. maybe about home. maybe something small. you're not sure if stopping at a gas station for water and a snack was real, or if you just wish it happened.
you are you as you were then. remember, all exists in the eternal now.
you drive, now. your foot steady on the gas, keeping the car going 80 miles an hour. you could drive faster, and maybe infinity would end sooner. maybe that's your imagination again.
there's no one around to complain. you could go 100. you could go less. you could go 50. there's not even anyone to police you, here. you pass a sign. it says "speed enforced by aircraft," but the sky is just as empty as the threat. you pass another sign. "emergency call box." you've never used one before. you're not sure if they work. you've never seen maintenance. not out here.
sometimes, you take off your sunglasses. the world is very blue. you wonder. does blue have a taste? if it did, that'd be good for you. the sky is so very large.
you pass another shrub. and another. and another. and another. and another.
where do your thoughts go?
as a child, you sing. camp songs. songs to memorize facts about science. songs evoking a starman.
you were you as you are then. remember, all exists in the eternal now.
you don't remember the hotel lobby. they all look the same, anyway. you don't remember the face of the clerk. a woman. face masked. face not. you don't remember. she must have taken your id, and you must have paid by card. she gave you another. a key. that's all cards are, really. once, you thought they were fascinating. a doorway to food and toys. or a novelty collection, made valuable for the shape and feel alone, even. you used to cut them out of paper and played at being an adult. when you were a child, your parents did all of this and you just watched, quietly. shyly. there's a distinct kind of scared, playing at this on your own. how old are you?
you don't remember the hotel lobby, but it doesn't matter. you've never walked these halls before. you've walked these halls before. you make it to your room. you've never been in this room before. you've been in this room before. you know that the bed sits on that side there, parallel to the window. the same curtains hang, and the same air unit sits below it, set to 72 degrees. you don't know what painting hangs above the headboard, but you know it will be there. here in the desert, it's likely a painting of red-rock or cacti.
you set your suitcase down. you take off your shoes. you breathe. you consider the television. as a child, the only place you had cable was here, never at home. maybe cartoons are playing.
all exists in the eternal now. you were driving again tomorrow, now.
you rest.
THE STORY HAS NOW ENDED. Would you like to go back home?