Details

The beauty of a physical road map is that they're too big.

Fully unraveled, they take up too much space. The maps require constant adjusting and readjusting just to have it all open, and the moment you fix a fold on one corner, the other corner is getting bent as it jams into the glovebox or center console. Yet, that seems to be the only way to accurately map—that it will always be a bit unwieldy, a little further than what can be imagined.

The eyes dart from one corner to another, the finger glides across a long highway, we can try taking it all in, but the best we can do is process the pieces. Just as the boundaries of land, the horizon, is defined not by the end, but rather a promise for more beyond the senses, the road map constantly evokes endless possibilities.

The utilitarian minimalism of a road map, where the only details are for the most part, roads, provides plenty of blank space for the imagination. Each intersection of lines or the many lonely dots become potential sites of interest. A huge cluster of arteries coming together, perhaps somewhere with a lot of exciting things to do? Or a singular lonely road with no breaks or interruptions, maybe some remote, natural gem? The answer is unfortunately usually less romantic, at least here in the Midwest, all that blank space is probably industrial farming. But the road map is not telling.

The road map gives you the keys to go anywhere, it's up to you to determine what's a destination.