There is nothing like walking down a de-commissioned highway.
In a place where it rains, life aggressively over-runs the concrete.
Every crack from erosion is filled with moss or weeds.
They increase those cracks, spreading outwards like the green arms of a slow motion supernova.
Still, my eyes are always drawn to the concrete barriers on either side.
They have often been knocked about, slightly off-kilter.
Yet, even years after they served a purpose, they still mark the boundaries of wholly different worlds.
On one side, the remnants of failed empire, on the other, expansion so thick and tall that it blocks out the sun.
These barriers are dramatic, but they exist every where.
Sometimes physical, sometimes not.
When I write, I think of the things that separate.
I think of the things that scrabble on the concrete.
I think of the things that grow madly, wildly towards the sun.