He drew the world not as it is—

but as it might be travelled.

Lines stretched taut like tendons

across the muscle of oceans;

 

longitudes obedient,

latitudes arranged in tempered rows.

 

The poles swelled with false importance,

the equator shrank to a whisper.

Yet in distortion, there was clarity—

a map not of truth, but of purpose.

 

And isn’t that the shape of living?

We chart experience not by accuracy,

but by what helps us move forward:

decisions pinned like compass points,

errors magnified at the edges.

 

We draw things large that hurt us most.

Shrink the mundane to footnotes on parchment.

We fold mountains into margins, but give deserts names—

so we can say we crossed them.

Mercator never claimed perfection.

 

Only direction. And in the end,

that might be enough.