​Volcano

I once saw a volcano explode. Villagers fled as smoke rose. Three waves can kill: heat flash, lava, or ash. The ash isn’t deadly itself, but it hides the sky, blankets the ground, and spoils water—enough to suffocate. Darkness can last for days, shading sunlight. I imagine plants dying in the shade. That lingering effect stays with me.

While I travel from state to state, it feels like I’m not moving. The sensation of being stuck in quicksand—struggling harder only to sink deeper—smells like sulfur. Feels like Heat. Burns like fire. As I go under, I think of the hamsters kept in a cage during my middle school years: their endless running on the exercise wheel now seems like yet another attempt at escape.

Even with a GPS, I feel directionless on my trip. I’m a truck driver without a home. Each day stretches out—one road running into another—offering no true landing place. Every new route brings obstacles: potholes, leaking fuel lines, and, always, the persistent sense of being trapped beneath a darkened sky.

If I break down again, I’ll burst—scattering dust, heat, and all this trapped momentum from this pen, finally making something visible from a journey to make ends.