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The road unfolds beneath us.
He’s humming something familiar.
His elbow rests against the window frame.
I grab my sketchbook from the satchel.
An ink pen moves steadily across the page.
Wispy lines unfurl on paper.
I render a narrow strip slicing through endless land.
Wooden fences, pointing their fingers toward an endless open sky.
Power poles, fringing the side of the road.
Are these the same power lines my love followed years prior?
On the next page, I capture wedged paddocks in long geometric shapes.
Distant silhouettes of cattle.
The occasional farmhouse appears briefly before vanishing behind the trees.
Marco has grown quiet during the last half hour.
Deep in thought, no doubt.
For him, this landscape hits differently.
It represents the biggest decision he ever made.
The moment he escaped captivity.
For me, it feels expansive and beautiful.
A sense of freedom that allows you to breathe deeper.
A horizon that promises possibility.
The thing about Australia is, humanity flocks to the coastline in abundance.
Vibrant urban sprawls and beaches.
A colourful heartbeat along the rim.
But the middle is a melting pot of quiet solace.
No mighty inland cities to punctuate the drive.
This hollow echo commands stillness.
A desolate monotony, burned to a crisp.
And there’s so much beauty in that, if I allow myself to soak it in.
