It always starts right here.

A straight line from nothing.
A playful tune of remorse.
The bright, cherry red of blood.
Never less than the first thought.
Never more than the last sigh.

I can't get behind the uproar. I can't see the thought lines presented by talking heads. I don't fill the balloons with helium doublespeak.

I know they want something, but I can't tell what. The explanations have become more elaborate than the goals they were meant to illuminate. The excuses have more chapters than the mission statement. The forest is burned to look for trees cut down long ago.

If you asked me if I'd do the same now as in the past, should I assume the outcome would be any different no matter what I do? Should we not try to fix problems by realizing what caused them in the first place? Are we treating the symptoms without addressing the virus?

We thought the TV was the overt surveillance explained in 1984, but is it really the Internet? Is it the cell phone? Is it a chip in our cars, behind our ears, in our pets, implanted with secret orders and the complicity of corrupt lawyers?

Do they already read our thoughts, but haven't refined the software to sift through the magnitude of information? If the government knows what we're thinking, are they trying to be God? Will their personal "morality" be the new judgment?

If we stay on the straight and narrow path, we will be continually frustrated by our inability to pass those who walk slower than we do. Life rage will be the new killer. It's everyone else's fault for my inability to climb the ranks.

But if we're all on the same path, if we're striving for the same thing, does anyone have the right to pass? And is the thought of superseding our fellow patriots the new treason?

If you don't build the road big enough for everyone to walk down, why would you expect everyone to stay on the road?

Or is it just the opposition to the road? Knowing we can't all go down the same road, you make more criminals everyday. Those who don't want to be interchangeable numbers in a credit card database. Some mark themselves as different, but never speak out. Some never mark themselves and blend in, but shout when the herd shifts. Some climb a tree and watch the river run.

Where are we going? What is this road we have built? Is the destination paradise or just the end? A great slaughterhouse we walk into smiling, only to have our heads sawed off milliseconds after we pass the threshold.

Is there a good life? Is there happily ever after? Is all of this relative? Is there anyone happier than the man who just pushed heroin into his veins? Is there anyone sadder than the same man when he comes down?

Is our discontent the reason we keep going? Were the cave people's lives shorter because of they didn't cook their food enough or because they found happiness quicker than us? Will you ever get enough?

And why do they keep telling us to get new, smaller phones every few months?

Can you hear me now?

Matt Worley isn't looking for the road anymore.