Behind the Wheel

We carry the savanna in us, and the jungle. Things that came before. Beneath all of our technology, our progress, our supposed civilization, lie small and frightened primates. We weren’t always the apex predator.

There are moments when our masks fall away and ancient buried parts appear. Raw, primitive things. Terror and it’s cousin, rage. Lust and it’s offspring, love. Those parts that really drive.

But we grip the wheel tightly, scan the road ahead, pretend our destination is clear, savor the fleeting illusion of control. Wrapped in our machines muscle and metal merge, driven by ghosts in our genes.

Ahead on the asphalt sometimes, glimpses of something greater. Hints of presence, of connection, of redemption. Silver heat rippling under an unforgiving desert sky. The shimmering that recedes as you approach.

So we drive. And drive. And drive.

Without art we are but chimps with car keys.