Walking

The plague of the weary traveler, who still has within him the hope and zeal of yet to come, grows like infection. He looks back at the road, so long traveled, reliving its conquests, its euphoria, its trauma, all overcome. Because he’s still here, like Papillon on his raft, his journey continues. The longer the road ahead, the longer the road behind. His temptation to turn back grows, like a cancer with every step. Miles ago, years ago, he looked only forward, with virtually nothing behind him save for those fleeting childhood moments… …promises all. He once envied his elders, so much so that he stood in ridicule mocking them. Scared was he of their wisdom. They knew all that he didn’t. And it frightened him. Now, as it were, miles along, decades of treasure and refuse fill his soul, the remnants of adventure buried within, He looks back now, having the same envy with which he once looked ahead. The irony becomes insanity. The farther he travels, the less seems clear. His destination muddled, the road meanders. Yet something within,that child he was, somehow survived, tattered. That child smiles in desperation, saying, “carry on, carry on!” And his love for that child is equal to his envy. So with infinite trust, he walks. The road ahead darkens But he walks with the trust of that child within buried deep.