So you’re driving along a beautiful island on the Atlantic seaboard when you see a street sign with your name on it. “How serendipitous,” you think. You stop to take a picture, a strange kind of selfie, and only when you look at the resulting picture do you notice the Dead End sign. Your street, the street that is you, is a dead end. “Geez,” you think, Charlie Brown style, “figures.”
But hey, we’re all dead end streets. And we’re all one-way, for that matter (certain rifts in the space-time continuum excepted). It’s not a depressing commentary on my particular life, it’s a quirky note from the great beyond, applicable to one and all.
So we’re all headed inexorably to that mysterious cul-de-sac with no outlet (certain reincarnations and eternal lives excepted); the interest comes in how you make your way along. My street meanders a lot. It’s also perpetually under construction, the kind where the flag person stops you for an hour even though there’s not a truck or jackhammer in sight. Sometimes I get to envying other people’s see-50-miles, straight-shot, eight-lane boulevards. But then again, how fast do you really want to travel this particular road, right? The slower I go, the more interesting stuff there seems to be.