The day of journeys. The day of beginnings. The day of endings. The day of answers.

And the whole world waits, and the whole world breathes. “But that just makes it worse,” some cry through the leaves. And the leaves only whisper, as leaves often do, holding no answer, no directions of where we are headed to.

And maybe one day I will open my eyes. Maybe one day I will escape the sane prison I live in. Maybe one day I will no longer travel on roads of limited thought, but on concrete roads that I can touch. Roads I can feel hard under my shoes in a place where I can actually wear shoes. Maybe one day I will open up my eyes and find a place where I am not connected to everything in my eyesight.

Maybe I can find a place where there are no rhymes to everything I say.

Maybe, but maybe not. I don’t think there’s a way out. Maybe it’s all a dream, maybe I’ll never find what I’m looking for. But then again, if I stop looking–

And it is plausible, with this imperfect human song, that one day with the trumpet flare and the cymbal gong– we will find it. Find it amongst the cobwebs in the back of our skulls– the key to the freedom of ourselves. The key to the chains that bind our spirits and our minds together. The locks will fall slack and so will the chains. And all us humans will no longer feel like Abels and Cains. Like ghosts we fly out of our bonds. We found a crack in this world– we intend to open it and slip through. And maybe, with this new thought, I can escape these streets that follow me where I travel. Follow me with a macabre red carpet unravel. Maybe beyond this rift, there aren’t any streets where I can fall deeper through the devil’s sift. Aren’t any streets where I can cry until my tears are meaningless.

Wait.

Where am I now? How did I get here? When did it happen and how? Please tell me, dear. There’s a library that’s out of business down the street and the town hall is nearby. For some reason all the traffic lights are on– red, yellow, green. Beside me a lamppost stands guard, waiting for me to cross the street. Cars drive by, their passengers flirting with the dismal town. And my feet– they are soaked in gloomy puddles that don’t leak down the street drains. There are gutters at my heels and rain I can feel.

Kicked to the curb in an ever-present world. Left with nothing. Not even myself. For I am an afterthought of my being, and I will never be anything more. The rest of me lies in a thought, a message in the stars, and my own mind– all floating in the world beyond these streets.