It’s hard to cope with the reality that many people view our existence as nothing more than extended stretches of road with intermittently-painted stripes and lines. They’re wrong. I’ve been alive for two decades; during which I’ve determined through thorough observation that life is incredibly unlikely to be a highway.
Now, if you believe in the multiverse theory, there’s a slim possibility that our universe may be a microbe in a raindrop or the imagination of a 6-year-old child or, begrudgingly, even a small patch of asphalt on an overrated highway. So the universe is theoretically infinite and all possibilities are occurring at the same time, sure. And I can’t actually rule out that we are not, in fact, some random freeway in Los Angeles filled with seething Prius drivers. But when Tom Cochrane or (even worse) Rascal Flatts tell you they want to ride some existential highway all night long, know that they’re probably lying to your face.
So what if the commonalities between life and highways are uncannily similar? Just because there’s constant time management, a need to go forward and inconvenient times to take a dump, doesn’t mean they’re one in the same. Life doesn’t have cruise control, and you don’t get to pull into a rest stop when you don’t feel like riding on. It’s a constant adventure, and more of a continuous journey rather than an arrival at a destination.
I refuse to believe that a highway makes up all of existence. I haven’t been run over yet, so obviously that’s a strong indicator that we’re probably just as we see ourselves and not anything else, especially not a dilapidated overpass. There’s no proof that this life is a highway, and I’ll only change my mind with concrete evidence.