"I'll be back in a little while," I yelled to my dad as I closed the door, hopped into my little green car and sped away from the 9th Street home in which I spent nearly all my childhood, or so it seemed. I drove off in search of something, though I wasn't quite sure what. Inspiration? Answers? Escape? I didn't know, and I'm certain nobody else did, if they even cared. Soon I was on the other side of the tiny town, headed due west, when I noticed something that my eyes had never seen before - a road sign proclaiming that the road which led to the old dumpground was hereby known as Coyote Hill Road. At least someone around here has some creativity, I thought to myself as I turned left to find some coyotes, some hills, some sign of life.

Five minutes farther along in my fruitless search, I saw another road sign, this time marking the old familiar Delaware Basin Road. Instantly, my mind leapt back to a time when it thought that the road actually led to Delaware; I didn't know the difference between petty little things like northeast and southwest and distance and time. I then vowed to follow the road until it ended, hoping that I wouldn't end up in Carlsbad. My search was soon well-rewarded, as to my right, among the familiar mesquite trees (in their familiar shade of yellow-green… or is it green-yellow?), lay an endless field of white wildflowers, which I'd never seen in my seventeen years of existence. Figuring that the only thing that would make this scene perfect would be some background music, I flipped on the radio. The faint sound of my favorite radio station, 200 miles away, whispered the familiar words to a song by 98 Degrees, one which triggered a tinge of pain and awareness for the problems from which I was apparently running away. Only a few seconds later, my fingers found themselves frantically searching for the local NPR station. Meanwhile, the road extended, so I followed it.

Looking back to the right, my eye caught something it hadn't previously. The storm clouds in the distance began to deposit gray streaks of rain, intermingling them with the beams of the slowly-descending sun, busy turning the sky ablaze. I also noticed that the white flowers were becoming fewer and farther between, leaving in their place a carpet of pure green. Minutes later, I rounded the curve that dropped off into the basin, and everything immediately grew ten times greater. The flowers were again abundant and were joined by beautiful yellow flowers that set themselves apart from the occasional dandelion I'd seen there before. The mesquites were greener, the rain grew heavier in the distance, and the sky was a shade of red that may never be seen again until the judgement day. In the near distance, I saw the lone windmill that marked the start of something even more awe-inspiring: the sand dunes that I played on as a little kid.

I took a sharp turn onto the dirt path, ignoring the new No Trespassing sign and instead concentrating on the yuccas and the jackrabbits. As I reached my destination, I noticed a shocking new discovery. Blocking the path that once led to freedom was a large, rusty, old barrel with a "B2" spray-painted on its dented side. Disappointed, I turned my car around, then decided to stop, turn the engine off, and roll down the window. I was soon enveloped in total and complete silence. That silence was soon broken by the sound of the rolling thunder, which attracted my attention to the north, over the orange dunes. The dunes seemed to melt into the pinkish-orange hue of the sky, which in turn blended into gray storm clouds immediately above. I then turned to the east, to see a field of blue above me; not the blue of a clear sky, but the blue silhouette of a menacing wall of clouds that I had apparently failed to see earlier.

To the south was a layered cloud that can only be described as a floating version of Painted Rock, with each distinct layer holding a contrasting color: gray, blue, orange, pink, white. To the east, the sky turned increasingly gray, with the fire of the sun already extinguished. My ears, which had already chosen to hear the strains of "How Great Thou Art", were briefly stimulated by the sound of a passing airplane, which soon faded into the rustling song of the wind. I started up the car again, with the window still rolled down, and I retraced my steps to the beaten path. Should I turn left, and return to the safety and familiarity of what I'd seen before, or should I turn right and risk getting lost, or, worse yet, ending up in Carlsbad? I slowly turned right, and picked up speed. The road extended, so I followed it.

Minutes later, when I began to fear that I might accidentally flee the country, I rounded a curve and encountered a herd of cows dangerously close to the side of the road. I slowed down and honked, which seemed only to attract them to the center of the road. As I stopped and begged them to move, I saw one give me a glance, as if to say it knew more about life than I could ever comprehend. It was probably right.

After a few seconds of frustration, the cow conceded, and I moved onward, climbing the opposite end of the basin, wondering if this road would ever end. The rain began to fall, drop by drop, onto my windshield, soon quickening its pace to a shower, then a pour. Luckily, I was able to outrun the storm, thinking how nice it would be if that act in itself had some sort of metaphorical meaning. Suddenly, I welcomed with my eyes a stop sign, signaling a crossroads.

In front, the green sign told me that if I turned right, I would eventually end up in Carlsbad, where I'd feared I would end up in the first place. If I turned left, I would end up in Jal, a town which I had only visited once, to get my driver's license. Following that road, I reasoned, would bring everything full-circle, something that happens way too often in my life. So I made a U-turn, ready to face the storm. The road extended, so I followed it.