dust bowl

text & photography Patrick La Roque

Maybe she woke up & looked at her life for the first time. The cruel, disparaging gaze that comes from shattered illusions. Maybe she walked straight out, into the crisp morning and all its bitter promises, without any regrets. 

When the tracks appeared she thought of immensity, of an endless path pushing through to an ocean at the end of the world. She dreamt of nomads & a never ending quest for solitude, for meaning. Something.

She found herself longing for boxcars & hobos, a silent community of lost souls moving through the continent like so many unhinged shadows. 

When the whistle blew she stepped onto the rails and shrugged. 

She had already moved on.