Myscha Dang-Harris

A Tribute to Jack Kerouac’s On the Road

Then they drifted towards the slightest sparkles via GPS, fascinated by more than what they see, and I crawl after them as blind as a mole. Those who are for me are those unsatisfied by the mere Earth, tantalized by the void swimming in the cosmos, thirst for more than what Earth offers; they are travelers who whisper to the planets, wishing them well on their journeys as they map the undiscovered worlds and collect stardust in shoeboxes.

She was Genesis, determined to stay lost within everything, playing every instrument with fingers laced with cosmic dust, singing to the comets passing by, studying how to build worlds with a single computer and play God. She uses the speech of another realm learned from pure interest, inhabiting the galaxy in her eyes when looking at the otters in the river the same way as she would staring at The Bird of Paradise, appreciating what they each had to teach, mapping out the entire universe from a single person’s mind and reading the nebulas to discover the newborn stars.

Genesis awakens every day to consume knowledge, beauty, experiences as if she were a black hole, following the asteroids to watch their journey’s end. She would draw them maps to help find their way, stealing fleeting glimpses of the sun, observing every phase of the moon, gazing wondrously into the heavens, looking at the stars as if they were angels, giving a hello to the planets that brought brief joy before continuing their voyages, reciting the celestial alignments of a friend’s birthday.

Genesis writes non-stop through the hours of the night, her imagination ablaze when the galaxy comes to life. She had curiosity swimming in her eyes, hair tied back, wrapped in a pastel hoodie with a broken zipper, and she wears square-framed glasses.

All of my other friends are grounded and only see the universe for how it not is, but how they see — Smart Alex, La Vie En Rose Eleri who refused to embrace or acknowledge the vices of Creation, Rigid Robert from the debate team whose obdurate ways made every dispute intolerable. The rest were Voids, vacant of all ambition, like Complacent Cubby who merely rode the waves rather than explored them, or Tight-Lipped Tootles who stared at the sky, but never asked her stars for their secrets, for their dust.