Sometimes I go visit the end of the railroad.
I sit down on the tracks,
drink wine and think back to the time when I had somewhere I had to be,
desperately.
It ends in a wall about seven feet tall that's been newly painted by some hooligan I cherished.
When I first wound up there I didn't know what I was supposed to do.
I tried climbing that wall for a few hours or days,
trying to go further than I needed to be.
But I never did like the destination bit anyway.
So I wandered off and found some new uncharted way to be for a time.
Every now and again I get the urge to reminisce.
I trot on back to the place and remind myself of the bliss
of knowing what the hell I was doing or where I was going.
I tag my name on a corner somewhere,
trudge down the tracks onto the parking lot,
hop in my car and go home.