Rider into the Storm

 I am drawn to images of rural  decay. As I drive along the highway in North Carolina I begin to slowly drift onto the shoulder. My eyes are diverted from the road to the dilapidated tobacco barns that are a common site for travelers in this region.
      I was born in a small town in Southeastern Arkansas. Images of the poverty stricken Mississippi River Delta permeate my psyche. I know I am not the only person who shares this unusual interest in old things. I say it is unusual because looking at old objects only reminds me of my own mortality. I am reminded that someday I will meet the same fate.
      If these things remind me of my own mortality why does it draw interest instead of fear? I decided I would think about this long and hard until I reached some sort of conclusion. These images are images of history. They are things of the past, that to some degree, remind me of my own past. It is easier and more pleasant to focus on the past. I enjoy recalling memories of my youth and times in my life when the world seemed full of opportunity. Dwelling on the past makes it easy to avoid thinking about the future. The past is certain and the future is not.
     Coming to terms with my own mortality makes everything in the present seem that much more beautiful because as each day passes, I know it could be my last. As I drive into the future that is fraught with danger and uncertainty, I leave behind the familiar, and hope that I will eventually overcome my fear.