Ontario - (and Quebeque), have witnessed me taking on their roads many times. Possibly even more often than I traveled on uphill downhill transportation veins of Iran. The point is, these provinces have this vast and unforgiving sky. A non-dimensional plot of cumulus clouds observing the scattered flow of the traffic that draws dotted lines between towns.
In my last trip from Ottawa to Toronto I tried to make sense of this silent stretch that always leaves me searching for layers that I yet have to see; I am more used to road trips in central-north Iran that give away a worldly experience of four seasons. There, you leave the cosmopolitan city, hit the desert, ride up the mountains and go through snow and fog, then descent to dense and green jungles and then is the sea.
- I am aware that by taking a cross - Canada road trip I will be exposed to as much, or even more, untouched and giving nature, yet going back and forth between towns and cities in less than 10 hours driving span it seems I still strive for a compressed feeling of accomplishment I have yet to experience here.
Back to Ontario sky... I was thinking what if I tried to take a turn and make meaning out of this flatness on the road – and all I got was close enough to the initial script with connotation of all of those end-of-the-world movies; what if the burning sunset on the horizon of 401 was an apocalypse coming at us? What if we were riding away from it knowing it will be after us in time? Is it not strange that the "journey" stops at a ghostly night time in the subway? That we refuge to our underground infrastructure, and step out of it to the untouched, glorious, color waving skyscrapers as far as possible from the sun. Waiting foolishly inside little lit lairs, waiting for the fire to come to us; hoping revelation is going to be late enough for our time to have passed by.
Imagine, we have zero knowledge of what the fire is housing inside the its belly yet, an instinctual and unrealistic optimism sits within us, as we feel we are ruling the world inside our cities, speculate the fire after us might yet forgive. Might yet bring mercy, for the sins we have called sin once, and then have reverted the rhetoric; only out of the fear that some day we might find some reason for trying hard not to try hard. For us to scrape the fear off of all that we know. We hope the fire forgives the fear of admitting our aggressive failures.
Science tells us however, instinctual optimism is statistically proven to be untruthful to the destination of life for all living things. The fire I know will burst it in our faces.