Me and my moron took to the road again, traveling the highways and the byways, the backroads and two-track farm roads. First we travelled West with the rising sun in our backs. There were luscious green cornfields to our left, and brilliant yellow sunflowers to our right. We encountered fat cattle grazing in shoulder high pastures teeming with life. There were signs of lovely creativity and artful play, and signs of impermanence and decay, the very fabric of our existence. Our reality.
Then we turned South into older country, the once proud “Republic of the Free State”. Sheep and cattle country, with a few farmers thrown in to complete the picture. We travelled through small towns with faded road signs, absent street names and tar roads turned to dirt and dust. Old towns now, with old people. The young ones have left, gone to do manual labour for rich American farmers far from home.
And back home the old way of life is fading, slowly rusting away into oblivion, making way for a new, as yet invisible, uncertain future. Even I, a humble Red Cap, can feel the sombre mood in this last resting place of once shining new and proud vehicles, now discarded and forgotten.
There is no desperation here, no lament. Only quiet acceptance of the inevitable end while the Sun burns down on exposed bodies and a playful wind moves the grass in soft waves of green. Even the farmers speak in a soft tone of voice as if waiting, more listening than telling, their spirit humble but not (yet) broken.
Life goes on. Down in the marshes the storks are hunting. Plovers shout their warnings, protecting their nests and their young. Butterflies flutter happily along from flower to flower and sheep and cattle graze quietly in a distance. In a shed there is a pool of fresh blood and the skin of a freshly slaughtered sheep.
We leave the farm in a pensive mood, driving slowly back the way we came. Down the road we find a graveyard with freshly dug, open graves. The last resting place of more sentient beings. It is quiet here. Not a sound, as if life is kept away deliberately.
Me and my moron traveling companion return back home at brake neck speed as usual. Back to the city vibrant with life and decadence. Near home the moron’s mood starts to lift. He becomes his old blockheaded self again, pounding the steering wheel with his left hand while showing obscene finger signs to fellow road users. In the last 20 minutes we have encountered, according to his lordship, seven morons, five imbeciles, six bastards, a couple of turds and even one mother f**kr. Someone is going to kill him someday.
Yes we are home, alive and fighting fit. We have wheels, we will travel again soon.