On Being Lost

On Being Lost

I have no sense of direction, or so I stupidly keep telling myself. All too often I find myself hopelessly lost on unfamiliar back roads. This place is criscrossed, threaded, woven and circled by dirt roads connecting homes that sit miles apart in some of the remote farm areas. Between dwellings back roads branch, twist, and split many times making it impossible for strangers to find their way.

GPS is useless, but get me there once, however, and I can do it again. Being lost, on the other hand, is total paranoia. Anxiety spills about me thinking of my last losting. The destination was only three miles as the crow flies, and yet two hours later I was shout singing, GET CHARLIE OFF THE MTA, and fearing that I would never return. I don't like being lost.