The Journey

Along the dusty road, I walk. Shimmering in the heat, my dark visage itinerantly wanders. A burden is shouldered during my travels that I can never let drop. It weighs me downward toward something bleak. The angry straps dig into my shoulders, cutting off circulation. A mat of sweat greases my back and brow. So goes bold me upon the ambivalent path. Broken glass crunches beneath my new shoes, making brittle and uncomfortable cracking sounds. Somehow, I remain uncut. Windblown garbage licks my heels. I pass signs along the road advertising for hotels, inns, bars, restaurants. They promise rest, peace, and sanctuary. But they are not written in my destiny. A different sort of web was spun for me. Over the years I have found that there is a certain comfort in resigning oneself to a fate. It may not exist, but its illusion consoles. Helplessness before the great design is a freedom from despair. I can only make the best of things using my meager powers.

Shouldering my burden, I walk through the broken glass.