>My love of small towns: I don’t know where I got it.
There isn’t a reason for it to be there.
But it is … somewhere just below the surface of all that is good in me.
Winding roads snaking around tobacco fields, corn and wheat rows. Miles where you can get lost with yourself. And be yourself. No one around.
Only you to impress – an activity which you don’t bother to engage in.
I suppose that deep inside of me, something comes alive in these small towns. A lust for no one else. Yearning for nothing. A feeling of self-reliance.
It makes me think I can be someone … myself.
Then, when I come to a big town and I see its traffic light, I am reminded that I am not alone in this small town. Like mice, people are hiding in the corners of it. Somewhere just beyond view, they are there – hiding without trying, and living their lives.
It’s over as soon as it began. And I’m back around the fields.
You can get killed out there in these small towns, you know. In a big town, if you sleep outside, odds are, you’ll wake up the next morning with a sun burn. But in a small town, if you do this, you’ll be lucky to not be rummaged through by a beast of some kind.
Makes you realize how small you are, being in this small town, doesn’t it?
Without your car, without your house, without the cloak of civilization and all its lights, you are nothing when strung out and put forth toward the wrath of the world. The real world. The one God made for us.
I, too, will someday be back in a small town, living like I can never die. But it’s going to be a while. I am a slave to the world man has made.
It is my captor.