It's dark. I can feel my soulaplexs pulse in my finger tips. All is still, like holding my ear to a conch shell. Both ears. There is a long road ahead. It doesn't twist, it doesn't turn, it is straight. I know it so well. There is a steady gradient. I can walk there in my own shoes. Along. Every day. Easy.
A gentle wind blows. I'm good at what I do.
If only it were that simple.
They hold rocks and sticks and trip ropes. They have agendas they won't speak of. They have grudges they have held since childhood. They have unhappy lives, I can only conclude. All those people standing along either side of the road.
They smile sweetly, as they hold their spears high. They extract their knives, brush lint off their shirts and retouch their hair, all at the same time. They collect evidence, as they adjust their happy faces. They tell you everything is alright, as they write out the complaint.
The road is still in front of me. Every day I am back at the beginning. Five o'clock is always at the other end.
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