Driving to be Lost

From Tuesday, 29 March 2011. 6:30 PM.
I drove as far as propriety would take me on Waldo Road. When it branched and became as broken as my suspended mind, I left it for Baker West. I drove. I found (refound?) Swede as its traverse north recommenced. Driving north, the stripes of light and dark were like a camera shutter over the eye of God. I enter and leave the light but the light is always there again. Swede ended in Estey. Ended with School Road and Bentley Township Hall and Suzie's Salon. Ended with homes for sale, homes that, without human interference, would regress back into the womb of the forest. I left this place of ends, this Estey. Left it for the sun and its light, though fading, still present.
I found myself across water, this lake a surface, an unlying mirror, a mazmorro of my thought tatters. And near it, in small force, the Welcome In restaurant. I stopped for an out-of-place, out-of-time meal. The comfort of being lost in so much of a pool took me as I wrote. The fear that technology and time wouldn't function here was brief but exhilarating. An old man, a veteran of the second World War, sat behind me, and approached by another man, initiated a conversation to grasp the identity of a mutual friend, long lost to the Earth, long lost to their minds. He flew V-17 bombers. He flew 34 missions. His accomplishments, his vehicles, his essence, were still lingering within their brain ashes, but his name was not. His name was with God now, amidst the aether and never ceasing light. They continued to shift their memories like a box of puzzle pieces to find his name, and I continued being lost.
I had driven off the phone grid, and I was still living. I had forgone familiarity, and invitations, and responsibilities, but I was not smitten. I had taken a step outside my artificial home and found it a mere doll house in a larger room. I had, through this simple gesture of recklessness, glanced infinity.