My love, I cannot walk with you, for your path is clear. Your path has been laid out. But I am a wanderer, I have no home. I have few belongings, that continue to grow fewer still. I have no destination. Uncertainty is the only certainty. I wonder sometimes why everyone’s running. Running through their days. Running through their lives. I have nothing against that. They must do as it pleases their minds. But I wonder if it does. What are they running towards? When will they stop? Will they pause to look around only when they have reached whatever it is they are running towards? What of the days then, that have passed and will pass as they are running, without taking notice? Will they ever reach what they are running towards? Or will the destination continue to seem just as far as it seemed at the start, like distant mountains that walk with you as you walk, and make you wonder if they’re an invention of your imagination? Or is the destination like a mirage in the hot desert. The promise of something desirable,out of reach, that disappears as you come closer, and appears again, further ahead, yet again out of reach.

What becomes of us as we run, through the sand, in the sun, faster, trying to get ahead, trying to prove that we’re the fastest, that we’re the best. Best at what? Do we even remember? Or have we been running for so long that running is all we can remember? Taken out of the mother’s uterus, the baby begins to crawl. Rises up and walks. For years she walks, into and out of her uniform, day after day. From one uniform to another. With the promise of something better, a reward that will justify all the running, all the walking. But where is that reward? Is getting a job that reward? Is making money that reward? Is growing old that reward? Is raising kids and telling them the same stories she was told that reward? If any of these is indeed the reward, then why does she still keep running, even after she has earned them? Running to make a career, running to send her children to school, running to get her children married. When will she stop? What is she running towards? What is she running from? Is it she who is running, or is the world drifting away beneath her feet, as she tries to stay in the same place, falling short sometimes, jumping ahead others. Is she running from time? Is it that the road on which she is running disintegrating, and the world behind her crumbling to pieces falling into the darkness, and the only way she can avoid falling herself is by keeping on running? What happens if she stops? Will the ground beneath her feet crumble, and fall into the darkness, taking her with it? And what would happen to her if she falls into the darkness. What lies there, where nothing lies? Where does it end? Or does it not end at all, just like the road she is running on? Will she continue to fall forever, just as she was running with no end in sight, till her senses give way? Or instead of continuing to disintegrate, will the road stop crumbling, just as she stops running? Maybe the darkness wasn’t trying to chase her at all. Maybe it was simply following her. And it will follow her as slowly or as fast as she moves. She doesn’t have to run. Maybe she will never find this out, if she doesn’t stop running.

I’ve stopped running love. I don’t see an end. I don’t even see a road. I am sitting. Sitting and wondering why people are running. Wondering if I should get up and start running again. Wondering where I would run if I did. There are so many directions, so many roads. Wondering if I should walk, rather than run. Take a leisurely stroll. Feel the blades of grass against my fingers. Feel the breeze of winter against the hair of my skin. Wondering what I’ve been running for all my life and where it has brought me. Wondering if someone would take a break from their running and sit with me and watch the birds. Try and understand their language. Wonder about pointless things like what they’re saying and why they’re saying it. Kee-kee-ke-keee. Thchu-Thchu-Thchu-chu-Thchu-Thchu-thchuuuu. Keeeww keeeeww keeww. Flying in circles all day, resting every now and then. Just like the rest of us. Waking up each morning, going through the day, coming back to sleep and repeat the same things the next day. On and on. It’s as if the same day is passing again and again, but each time we’re giving up a part of ourselves while going through it. Imagine that. Your entire life is just one day, that you’re living over and over, each time with a new memory that you got in exchange for trading away a piece of yourself.

Sometimes I can feel the rotation of the earth, feel the sun go by. Everything around me being dragged along by an invisible force. Sometimes it’s really fast. So fast I might thrown out of the loop. Rise above, and see the world go round and round. Everyone I know. Looking down at them all. Their faces changing ever so slightly with every revolution. Like frames in a reel of film. Differences so minute you can barely tell. And yet, when you play them at full speed they come to life, as a motion picture. Just like our lives. Each day is a frame. Doesn’t feel like a lot can be accomplished in a day. But put them all together, the days of our lives, and a story emerges. But right now I’m pausing to enjoy the frame.

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