Old maps were drawn by hand.
Tentacles reached from the deep, monsters rose from the sea. They warned: set your sails, but check your course.
Sailors knew this. Time after time, they unfurled their maps, water-stained and worn. Every voyage a wager.
Later maps slipped into glove compartments and seat-back pockets. Not oceans now, but highways. The paper thick, the colors sharp.
The maps had improved, but the choice remained. There was always a thrill in pulling it free.
Maps promised no rescue. Only guidance.
Now the pockets are empty, the old maps stacked in corners. We no longer reckon with dead ends, wrong exits, or the ache of being lost. We go where we are told.
We move, but we do not travel.
Old maps knew better. The course was never theirs to decide.