I always feel like I’m running. Not running away, there’s no such thing. Just running forward towards something.
Something.
There’s no such place.
With how long I've been running surely I'd have found it by now.
I've though of what it must look like.
Something could be a field buried in a brilliant, sunlit cloud of alfalfa.
It could be a tundra, frozen and without borders.
A rainforest, vivid with life, green and flourishing.
A mountain, lurching over a city, and in the city there would be nothing but good men.
No liars, nor cheats.
Just good men and good women, good drink and bad bars, blocks and city blocks of motels riddled, reeking with the smoke of cigarettes smoked sometime post-***.
And in the city there would be nothing but goodmen railing good men raving and ranting, chanting for more railing.
These stairs sure are steep, I best not fall.
Something could be a desert. The dunes would stretch, immaculate, across my vision. The horizon would be sun, sand, and sun again.
Is the sky still blue in a desert? Is desert wind built of language and faith, or just oxygen heated to boiling? Is the night full of hushed whispered deviance? Is the night bent over the day's sofa? Is he waiting for sunrise?