It Is Many Years Later

I’m standing in the middle of the road with a gun to my head, trying desperately to remember the happiness that I felt when I was being born. The road is ten miles long, from beginning to end and I am standing on the double yellow line at the five mile mark. Do not pass. Don’t. Ever. Pass. I am standing so that I can see the five miles that I have traveled. There has been no avoiding of experience here in this life. No short cuts. No turn-offs of this road. Its black asphalt runs straight ahead and has two lanes, but I can only travel in one direction. The five mile marker is a big black question mark on a white sign. Like a speed limit sign, only it is facing the middle of the road, not the traffic. I’m standing in the middle of the road with the gun to my head, and I’m thinking that I’ve already lived a whole year longer than my father. When he would have been my age, the road had already stopped and he had dropped off of a cliff. Was his road only five miles long, or did he just travel twice as fast?

It Is Many Years Later