Everything is dry. Nothingness for miles. But what a terrible thing it would be to quit walking. I mean, I could quit walking. But then again why would I if I already left by walking away from that fruitless, futureless land and through that rising, mountain sea? What a weird thing it is for salvation to end where it began in another fruitless Land and another futureless Quest. I don’t know, maybe I’ll quit walking. Maybe I’ll sit here in the sand where east is west and north is south, staring at the same damn thing as yesterday and the year before that, as the horizon bends and whispers, “Haven’t you been here before?” measuring me so I’ll measure myself. I think I’m done measuring. Why else would I be sitting? Maybe that’s the point of walking— to find that city blurring over the fold so I can touch its walls and turn around, walking again to this place I’m sitting, this dry, wondrous nothingness where I became who I am and am endlessly becoming.
By Stephen Copeland
This poem was first published on copelandwrites.com