We hit the pavement hard, with a mission and a vision. There is courage in our step, and we go on. We walk.
We move in circles, tilting the axis ever so slightly, to propel us forward, to propel us on. We measure progress in slow movements. The nuance between slow movement and no movement is faint. But still, we go on. We walk.
But the journey home is not for the faint of heart.
Before long, we are circling the waves. It feels like a dream, running in sand, up to our knees in the ocean, with an infinite distance stretched before us. We slow. And then we stop – swallowed by the sunset, swallowed by the sea. And the earth folds around us. We sink.
We drop past those who have left us. We fall below those who were never really with us. We move through those who never saw us. This is tragic country for the weary; only the wicked thrive here. We fade.
If lucky, we become ghosts, reflecting laughter and light. We’ll project memories that are grey in the distance but rose from behind. If unlucky, we hollow. We become a shell of ourselves. Either way, we come to fall apart. We lose our shape, because we can no longer hold everything in place. We fall into p i e c e s.
Fragments remain, pieces in place of hearts. We grow fainter. But we float. We rise. We reach the surface broken, and we move with the wind. Hitchhikers, freeloading on the momentum. We are carried onward. We are moved forward.
We circle to the ground. When we are settled, we collect, pieces in place of whole. But we carry what we can, and we say goodbye to what we can’t. We walk. We continue home.