Life on the road may not be easy, but then again, why should it be? It must be chewable; something flavorful to swallow and digest; something with nutrients to sustain us. Life on the path cannot be straight and clear, substance never is. Occlusion by morning fog and afternoon mirages and moonlit shadows garnishes the journey so thoughtfully that mapping it becomes an exotic story, patiently awaited by gypsy children around bedtime flames, orange glittering fantastically off their clothes. They voraciously devour the diverging roads, and more so, the unmarked, unforgotten trails of the chef who relied on olfaction to direct her wild dishes into meals of delightful, and sometimes unexpected, satisfaction.
No matter the turn, or the bear behind the bush, we must still continue on this path – it is survival. A shark without fins is murdered to the ocean floor, dissected and disintegrated – a chef under dirt and an ocean left unexplored.