Sunday 11 December 2016

The Man Who Is Too Far Ahead

In the end our hopes are just specks of dust flung around by that wind of change we never wanted and we never asked for. My eyes always ahead, my mind always that step ahead. The step never made, never completed, never slammed on the shaky ground. It never happened and maybe never will. My eyes forgot to look back and sit with the many who suffer in their present. Am I escaping? Am I rushing to find out the different I or we want to make? Will my head spin and turn backwards like Tiresias? The doom of the future I want to avoid is the doom of a past I cannot escape. Running, rushing, making that last attempt to hide. Somewhere. Even if it is shouting the last promise of hope, the last offer of redemption from an unopened box, from cryptic speculation, from things that may and probably don't exist.
Should I stop hoping? Do I need to slow down with the pack and hum the blue notes of surrender? I know their path will lead me off the cliff. And what do I offer instead? Flying away perhaps. Or the illusion of flying by slowing down my steps, pretending to walk forward, and never step backwards, a perpetual moonwalk where I would be stuck in an oblivious lull. Oblivious to the care I can give or I will receive, when old, when crazy, when what mattered to you no longer exists, just like those specks of dust, blown away by a wind that is strong and pungent. It hits my face hard under a clear sunny sky. The subliminal message of a life shorter than the message you want to tell. Shorter than the change you and I will see. But I may warn you and scare for no reason. You don't look at the tomorrow I want to live in. It does not exist. It is a dream. And when morning comes I will be gone like dreams melting in the light of day...

No comments:

Post a Comment