Running on an Endless Thought

Christopher D. Eldridge - © 2000

Have you ever tried to continue on a thought forever, never stopping, never turning, running on a sleepless dream, in a sleepless world, where memories come and go and are plucked from the air like falling snow, falling from a place you can not see, a place where fantasies lie, where they rest like lifeless entities, motionless, breathless, just waiting to be invoked, to be realized, since this where the night never ends, where the rain falls warm upon the child’s back, like tears from heaven, spilt from the eyes of a carefree traveler who looks upon his world in a sightless vision, sprung from a depthless sea, where water becomes air, where air becomes life . . . the life breathed into another, like a silent kiss through the still-night air that falls upon the earth in bliss, where bliss becomes the remembrance of a time long past, of a world forgotten, where love and freedom dally upon the lips—lips of innocence that know not the sting of a frozen heart, a heart shaped from the recesses of darkness, once clean and pure as the water from a gushing spring waiting to be discovered, waiting through a thousand drops of sand, sand that was once rock, once mountain, once nothing, soon nothing, but what is nothing, a something without something—an unfathomable thing, a hopeless thought without merit, without this or that, and yet I remember that, or perhaps it was this, or maybe it was both, a recollection of something sweet, sweet as a kiss from a lover who wakes you from a chimerical dream . . . a dream, a fragment of the past where here, here in this place where a moment of perfection is carved into an ever effacing wall, a wall that reflects nothing but you, the you who is I, who is me, who is you, the who that is us, the us that reaches forward, forward into a sightless plane where existence is being wound by the fingers of a thoughtless force, uncomprehending the actions that are pushing it all apart, like the tireless actions of a string rising and falling through the energy of a hand propelling it, propelling it, controlling it, forcing upon the demands of an endless cycle, a cycle of birth and death, no ending, no beginning, at least so long as the eyes remain shut, shut behind the doors of an evolutionary lock, forgotten in the annals of time, or perhaps it was a lock of creation, from a sampling of fruit, from an inner curiosity not quite understood, for every step forward is a step around, a repetition of the past, forever circling, forever reinventing, yet forever remaining the same . . . .

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