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fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

The Dark Road Called Forward

photo c 2014 Bill Friday

photo c 2014 Bill Friday

 

[My world is lately upside-down. Its only direction is the road before me, and it is called, Forward.]

I have a past. We all do. Mine is dark behind me, and strewn with the debris of unchangeable regret. The burnt and mangled wreckage of unsuspecting lives, forfeit to the fog-wet highway, taken too lightly. Captured only in digital reminders of the worst ending, never imagined, and what must have been the better times before. Times of lies rightly told, and fears suppressed long enough to enjoy the promise of surroundings that would fade away, locked safe inside grief’s scrapbook.

The open road, at night, looks like life. There is only what’s in front of you, insufficiently lit. Just enough light to aim yourself, hurtling, into more dark. Behind you, there is nothing on which to dwell. A last stop, last road sign, last lane change. Or anything more than the shadows of what might be gaining on you. And in the distance, there are the cities, distant, shining. Waking dreams, miles away and full of the hope you foolishly still hold onto, silent, in your heart. Silent, because you know that, while they were once beautiful, they are now just the out-loud promises you weren’t meant to keep. Mystical, glowing, still drawing you like a vision of your own clever words. But up close, jagged, and beyond forgiveness. A blue neon cement-scape of lives crumbled, and nothing but dirt in the details.

So you accept only what you can see in the light right before you. You trust only that the destination ahead is there as you’ve been told, and that it waits for you. You let all there is, shining in the distance, go.

And you stay on the dark road called Forward.

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

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