Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Road

Nothing exists but the road beneath my feet.

I thought I was in a town yesterday, thought I met people and that they were kind to me. I thought I spent the night, drank their wine and brought news from all parts of the countryside.

But there’s no town that I can see, all I have is the memory.

And memory’s a fickle thing, a thing of light and shadow, quick to deceive. Only a fool would trust it.

Not like the road.

The road is real, beneath me. It has weight.

The rest is nothing more than a dream.

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