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Leaving Flagstaff

Everything flows. The mountains, sun, rain, and clouds all flow easily, moving at a pace that is just above noticeable. Accurately, in a quiet, oscillating rhythm. In slow motion. In the midst of all of it, the motorcycle rolls instinctively, dancing with the air to the beat of the wind, caressing the mountain through the pavement, buzzing like a small insect flying in the hive of nature. All attempts are gone. No thought is needed. The motorcycle runs by itself and the roads unfold and gradually reveal the way. We flow effortlessly through all of it, in sync with the random movement of the clouds, the arbitrary gusts of wind, and the slower but certain movement of the earth. There is no destination, no route, and no origin. All I do is let go and let the motorcycle flow naturally in the spaghetti of objects, particles, and energy that is the world. It is all in me.

The mountains, swarming with animals; the depth of the oceans; the forests, flowing to the movement of the wind. All falling leaves, laughing children, ants rebuilding their nests after the storm, cars, mushrooms, teapots, buildings, airplanes, chairs, ridges, continents. It is all in me. Vast and uncontainable, unless I let go and simply let it flow, do its own dance, without trying to alter it in any way.

My breath is the air, the rubber is the asphalt. I am the motorcycle. I am the mountains. I am the sun, the clouds, and the rain. I am the road.

I am the road.