This road only goes one way: the way it’s going. You can imagine it’s not so, that the road could veer this way or that; perhaps it could even turn backward and take you to places you’ve already been. Remove the idea of could from that notion, and you may be on to something.

Today the road has me in a town I’ve never visited before, sipping hotel coffee that would still be bad, even if it weren’t watered down. Ask me six months ago if I thought I’d be here, and I might have said, “It wouldn’t surprise me.” That’s what many years on the road can do to you––it wears out your surprise muscle, among other things.

Though right now my body is stationary, the road has me moving; there’s no such thing as not moving in this world. The sand in my pocket leaks to the floor. I don’t know how much is in there, but I can tell you it’s fifty pounds less than it was when I started. There are people––the “you only have one life!” sort of people––who will say that an ideal existence is one in which I could properly account for all the sand I’ve used and all that I will use, but I wonder if that sort of thinking is just another way of avoiding reality. If my time on this road has taught me anything, it’s that thinking is a tragic waste of sand. The only way I’ve found to avoid that waste is to pay attention to what’s in front of you.  

Right now, I’m elated to drop a few grains of the precious stuff in honor of the dozen or so people who might read this note. Perhaps it’s a waste; I don’t know. I’ve wasted sand on sillier things.