Perspectives is a weekly column that takes an inanimate object and dissects or animates it. Watch out for low-lying humor.

Of asphalt and concrete with rebar enforcement—the flesh, guts, and bone— Interstate 57 (namely the stretch from Manteno, IL to the I-74 junction) is the tear in Illinois fields. It’s a simple stretch, and it deals with life simply. Existential quandaries do not cross its mind.

I-57. (Photo by Stephen Butler on Flickr licensed under Creative Commons)

It runs straight.

It is split in two.

It was created.

Its nature is contrary to that of the lonely traveler who drives along its back. To the traveler, the simplicity and seemingly empty landscape evokes an inward gaze and unearths false complexities of life and existence. No, the I-57 stretch knows it exists and nothing else.

In its enlightened state, the I-57 stretch lacks the peripheral vision to see beyond and around. It cannot draw up connections between different entities. It cannot make art. It does not appreciate and does not feel. It takes no account of the future or past, or of the living. It is just that ribbon of highway that gashes the small Illinois rural communities. It does not give, does not bend with the land.

Along with the interstate highways spread across the country, it was created by Eisenhower. He made them and left them. And now Eisenhower is dead.

The I-57 stretch knows this. It knows that there is no higher purpose to life. And, it knows that one day, it will deteriorate and die. The interstate system knows how its presence interacts with the land around it. It continues to expand, building further and wider, swelling.

All the while, it erodes.

It just lives, and it will just die. It will return to the Earth, and the Earth will swallow it up.

No matter how many orange cones are erected, no matter how many flags are waved, signs held up, speed zones enforced, no matter how many times we repave and rebuild, the end is already written.