La Encrucijada

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There is a place in this world that not many people have seen. Most people don’t know it exists. The smarter ones go looking for it. The smarter ones yet know that it’s not the sort of place you can find. You can end up there, sure. And when you do it is perhaps not even that remarkable to begin with. But no one who has ever gone searching has found it.

There is a place in this world where all roads meet. It has been called many names by many people. Some who have seen it breathe an awestruck name that seems to come from the place itself rather than somewhere within their own consciousness. Then there are others. Those of status who have spent their lives searching without success and feel as though the place owes them something. Those who build up the place in their head as a Mecca or an El Dorado and for every hour they spend looking, assume that the reward at the end must be yet greater to still elude them and in so doing they trod right over the simplicity that makes the place what is. These people, they cough up a bitter syllable that passes to identify the place. For me, I call it La Encrucijada. The Crossroads. There’s no good reason for the Spanish. I just think that a name has to sound like the thing it describes. The English 'Crossroads' doesn’t seem fitting— the hard C offers an introduction too jarring to capture the ephemeral nature of the place. If it can be captured at all. Lilting, sibilant syllables suit better, and so I settle on La Encrucijada.

There is a place in this world that may or may not exist on the lonely stretch of road between Duluth and Sault Ste. Marie. I know where I came from and where I was going to. But the spot in our world where the place was has gone from my memory. Even if you could stand in the exact spot I did, I doubt that it would allow itself to be seen. But as I rode into this place, suddenly an entire network of roads opened itself up to me. Life imitates art, sure, but in this winding, industrial, utilitarian, man-made fractal, life is art. From where I stood, proudly atop my 2016 Salsa Marrakesh, I could go anywhere. I could follow any branching path, trail, or trace and they would carry me surely onward. Not forward or backward, towards or away, but steadily onward, as immutable and carefree as a droplet of water sparkling as it throws itself into a cascade.

Maybe the mistake I made was riding forward towards Sault Ste. Marie. I could have gone anywhere, and yet I put my head down and pedaled towards that which I had set as my destination. My endpoint, as though these things had an end. I had pored over maps to plan my trip, pinned myself to inked-in places so I wouldn’t lose myself. Maybe in anchoring myself to acrylic mockeries of the world I had cut myself free from the world itself.

Maybe I could have returned to the place, even after forsaking it that day. Maybe it is only my bookish searching and obsessing over the place that moved it squarely out of my reach. Just like the gold-seekers before me.

Or maybe this is the sort of place that the worst of us sees but once.

But I set myself in a class apart from the princes, the CEOs, and the beggars who throw down the last of their wealth in a pointless quest. We’re not so different, after all. But I have what they have not: I saw a glimpse of the place that you can only find when you’re not looking for it.
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Level 77
Jul 14, 2020
What a beautiful blog! This is the true quality needed in Recent User Blogs that isn't there. A great blog that you should be proud of!
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Level 70
Jul 14, 2020
A truly wonderful and impactful story, this deserves more than just being a JetPunk blog.
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Level 68
Jul 14, 2020
Oh wow. That story is incredible. Very well done Max, I really enjoyed reading this.
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Level 55
Jul 14, 2020
Wonderful blog Max, I don't even have words for it. I don't even know if I should even call it a blog anymore...
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Level 68
Jul 15, 2020
(jaw drops) Wow! Awesome writing.