Terra 432..
There’s something about the desert that makes you feel like you’re chasing ghosts—endless highways, the roar of engines, the blur of dust and heat. I found myself out here again, behind the wheel of a muscle car, the low rumble of its engine syncing with my thoughts. It was supposed to be freedom. The open road, the wind in my hair, that elusive rush of feeling alive, but the deeper I went, the more I realized I wasn’t chasing romance. I was chasing a mirage.
Capitalism paints its own picture of love—fast cars, luxury, the thrill of always moving forward, never slowing down. But what does it leave behind? We collect things, like trophies, only to realize they’re just for show. Maybe that’s why I’m always on the move, never really staying, never really owning anything real. It’s easy to confuse the chase with something more meaningful, to think that maybe if you move fast enough, push hard enough, you’ll outrun the emptiness.
The truth hit me, clear as the desert sky. You can fall in line, do everything right, accumulate all the things the world says should matter, but in the end, you don’t get more time. Love, real love, doesn’t care about speed or status. It asks you to slow down, to let go of the race. And if you can’t… well, even the speed of light feels too slow.
I took a deep breath and pressed the gas a little harder, watching the road stretch ahead of me like a question I wasn’t sure how to answer.
