For today’s flash fiction piece, here’s something a little lighter than what I had the previous two weeks. The theme for this story is a run-on sentence, so take a deep breath before you dive in. Enjoy.

Running on an Endless Thought © 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 cannot 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 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, a nothing that may never be, for what may be has yet to be decided, decided by thoughts that one day will become memories, recollections of bitterness hopefully conquered by the 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 us, the us that reaches forward, forward into a sightless plane where the fingers of a thoughtless force wind existence, uncomprehending the actions that are pushing it all apart, 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 . . . .