What the exit signs used to mean

Somewhere on a long drive, it's going to hit you. Maybe it already has. Hours in, and you haven't counted once. How long till the next stop. Whether you packed enough. When you could slip away without anyone asking why. The green exit signs are just signs again.

They used to read like a countdown. Long drives came in stretches, not miles, and whoever rode with you kept your schedule without knowing it existed. The cigarette chopped every long thing into short ones. The movie. The workday. The afternoon with people you love. You never set the interval. It did.

Now the road comes in one piece, and so does the rest. A film that runs all the way to its credits. An afternoon that ends when it's done. You're living in one long stretch instead of a string of pit stops. God handed back the whole day in one piece. Nothing's holding the scissors anymore.

Pick one long thing you've been dodging. The drive to see someone you miss. The hike that eats a whole morning. The Saturday with nothing chopped out of it. Stop only when you want to, never because a countdown says so. When you get there, sit for one second before you move. I went the whole way, and it was all mine.