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Perhaps there was a reason why we had filled our world with distraction after all. Perhaps there was a reason why we surrounded ourselves with plastic and light and excess. Perhaps our collective consciousness remembered all too well what it was like in darkness, surrounded by wet, rotten wood, mud, and nothing good to eat.
All we have to go on is our own skewed window on the world. We’re like hermits living in the attics of big houses on lonely hills, watching each other with broken telescopes.
In the end, I thought, this is how we all end up; running alone through our own wilderness, the landscape of disjointed events that form our lives, with nobody to make sense of it but ourselves. The road is ours, and ours alone.
