Forever Sacred

journal entry
11/25/2010
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It is 12:33 AM, November 25, 2010. Thanksgiving Day has just begun. Holiday Inn Express.

As we drove up the mountain, the long climb on Interstate-40 from Old Fort to Black Mountain, then through Land of the Sky and westward toward Bryson and Cherokee, I thought of blood spilled. The passage of time over these hills continues from the days of the aborigines of these mountains to this moment with a wide paved path with enclosed bubbles on wheels speeding along the path. Bubbled encasements made from steel, fiberglass, plastic, rubber, faux leather, petrol. Each vehicle separate, on its on; each with its own world inside. It is doubtful the inhabitants within each will ever meet.

Each cubicle has a barrier for protection and functionality. The dwellers are less vulnerable to the outside attacks than if they didn't have the encasements.

But some vehicles aren't bubbles at all; but rather like horses with wheels, instead of legs. The jockeys can feel the cold and the wind. They hear sounds that can't be controlled as easily as the sounds inside the moving canisters.

All this was a fantasy at some time. Man, woman, boy, girl walked or ran or perhaps rode upon an animals back.

Who knows how many animals, human and otherwise, have died upon the soil on which we tread, on which we build, on which we pave.

I think if there is a creator god, that s/he/it gets a chuckle at the sight of our cubicles.

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