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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Travel  |  House: Booksie Classic

I have a feeling this is a little bit out-of-the-ordinary, since I didn't really start writing with any intention. Really, I was just guided by some music, and the day I'd had (alternated between
"Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin, then "Wait" by M83). Reading the story isn't really meant to fill the span of the song(s), although if you give the words some consideration, it might work.

Submitted: October 05, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 05, 2017




“In those days, [there] weren’t seven seas or 100 of every commonwealth. It was one land, one mass, one great jaunt, to be followed by whomever cared to look…”

-Shiv Lewis, Excerpts from Riptide, 1932


I think of a long road of which I once traveled. In my consciousness, I remember it as a trip done through a vehicle. In my memory, I see the journey as having been walked rather than ridden, and of a considerably longer time. Say, 17 years.


On this road, of which was far out of my nature,  I saw mountains, lakes and streams, dried pockets of brush blowing in a dusty wind. There was snow, and rain, thunder and lightning. There were passing cars, some going fast, too fast for the mind to comprehend. A freeway that branched into lanes, which broke into open country, which fractured into uncharted territory: what was natural colliding with what was manmade.


For the road which I traveled had been a dream. A point, somewhere four hours in and 300 miles deep, there was a golden arch superimposed beyond the clouds. A stretch of light that extended beyond the known sky, and even farther past what I could imagine, was another path lain.


This fault had no cracks: where the moon did not set even if the sun rose in the horizon, and where no whisper made a sound. Therein, two became one, and I found myself on this road, as smooth as can be, the soles of my shoes weightless, a pleasantness in the way drifting into sleep would’ve brought me. More than just a feeling, it had become something to believe in, something to cherish; and so, it was this road I would return to, time and again.


I would have followed it forever if I could have. There were moments, perhaps immeasurable, that I would find myself back on the road in which I had begun: the broken, stormy, artery that made my heart skip beats. Such a lonely place to be: not without sight of the place I wanted to feel that sensation again, but having to be far away enough to never feel it. Should there ever have been a Tantalus, I was of such a burden. So close, yet so far away.


It is at this point that I have seen a return to such a place inevitable, but not without condition. What was once safe, and reminded myself of a younger age, like a mirror against time, was not so any more. This road, at least for my own insecurities, had an end, and was meant to go somewhere I was not. As I remember now, it still hasn’t ended, but will; and when it does, then the story ends.


Perhaps the cracked causeway will continue to be just? Will it hold, as it was created to? Or will it break, or end in some other way? Truthfully, I believe that for as long and cherished as it was, this road is meant to end, to become unplugged, to go dark, to fragment like the open nothingness it once passed. Maybe it will someday encounter that golden boulevard again, in a different place, as something whole.


But not in this lifetime.


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